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SKIPPER JOHN 
OF THE NIMBUS 







'skipper JOHN 
OF THE NIMBUS 


BY 

RAYMOND McFarland 

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WITH FRONTISPIECE IN COLOR BY 

ANTON OTTO FISCHER / 


Jl3eto gotfe 

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
1918 


A.U rights reserved 



Copyright. 1918 

By the MACMILLxiN COMPANY i 


Set up and electrotyped. Published September, 1918. 



©CU50;{530 ^ 

SEP 25 1918 


'V\o V 


'& P'S 'O 


MY MOTHER 


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CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I Alders and Hemlock 1 

II Boyhood Dreams 10 

III Frosty Hemlock 21 

IV The Wharves of Comberton .... 30 

V A Day of Bargains 36 

VI Kidnaped 47 

VII When a Grand-banker Returns ... 57 

VIII Breaking a Boy 62 

IX Planning Large 71 

X An Ash Breeze 82 

XI Making Good 98 

XII A Surprising Catch 109 

XIII Bill Spurling’s Mutiny 116 

XIV The Escape 128 

XV Outlaws of the Sea 138 

XVI A Bold Venture 14)7 

XVII A Contest of Vikings 155 

XVIII Defying the Lion 164 

XIX Seine-Boat or Schooner? 173 

XX The Battle of Cow Bay 181 

XXI A Stern Chase 195 

XXII A Fair Exchange 201 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

XXIII Through Narrow Straits 211 

XXIV Mists and Mysteries 219 

XXV The Lure op the North Bay .... 230 

XXVI What Deadman*s Rock Saw .... 237 

XXVII The Wrath of the Winds 249 

XXVIII The Passing of a Schooner .... 260 

XXIX The Home Port 273 

XXX Furling the Sails 280 


SKIPPER JOHN OF THE 
NIMBUS 


CHAPTER I 

ALDERS AND HEMLOCK 

S CHOOL let out a little early on the afternoon in 
April from which this narrative takes its begin- 
ning. It usually did on Fridays whenever we 
spoke pieces instead of reciting lessons. None of us, 
especially the boys, had a particular fondness for speak- 
ing pieces; yet the day was always looked forward to 
with a certain amount of eagerness in the hope that we 
might be dismissed a half-hour early. We boys had 
arranged our part of the afternoon’s program with 
deliberation; it must have been a genial shock that the 
teacher experienced as one after another of the boys, 
usually so reluctant to mount the platform and always 
ill at ease, spoke his piece with zest and accuracy. To 
be sure the pieces were short but they passed muster 
without question. 

I started up the road in great glee, swinging my dinner 
pail and Monteith’s “ Comprehensive ” through the air 
to balance me as I ran. My destination was John 
Deane’s woodpile. Now it must be admitted at the out- 
set that woodpiles are never attractive to young boys 
while spring is growing or to growing boys while spring 
is young, old or middle-aged. So you will have guessed 


^ SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 

rightly that John Deane, not his woodpile, was the ob- 
ject of my hustling. Where the woodpile was, there 
John Deane could be found until the wood was sawed, 
split and piled in regulation tiers. 

Even at that the boy’s job is not finished. Firewood 
stands around in the way like a swollen conscience, eter- 
nally reminding some one of its presence ; you are never 
proud of it, still it must receive due consideration and 
your final wish is that there were no such things as con- 
sciences to become distended or woodpiles to receive at- 
tention. The woodpile remains constant through every 
change of spring. Fences have to be mended and fields 
plowed; yet the wood pile ever remains m statu quo to 
be the sandwich between hours at the fence and days 
behind the plow. 

Even after the boy gets the pile tiered up like library 
stacks, so high and wide and long, buttressed at each end 
with a cob-pile, there is no end to the matter. In the 
midst of the haying season a dull day comes to prevent 
work in the fields. Stick by stick the wood is laid in 
the wheel-barrow until both barrow and boy groan under 
the load. It requires no small degree of skill to wheel 
the load up the long plank into the woodshed. So many 
times, too, the plank is the scene of disaster, for the 
long-suffering barrow decides to jettison its deck cargo 
which falls off in the path of the barrow and blocks fur- 
ther progress. The boy, with more persistence than 
good judgment learned from experience, backs the bar- 
row down the plank, gets a fresh start and plunges the 
load into the midst of the debris, with the result that all 
the front row sticks which act as a key to the stability 
of the load, fall off and let the remaining sticks come 
rattling down over the handles of the barrow. 

Hardly is the woodpile laid horizontal in the funereal 
cavity of the woodshed than it has to be ferreted out for 
use in the kitchen stove. This time it is “ hand picked ” 


ALDERS AND HEIVfLOCK 


3 


from the pile and carried in great armfuls to the wood- 

box, that mysterious hole in the wall that is always 
empty, however often it may be filled. At night the box 
is heaped to overflowing; in the morning an empty box 
opens wide in Moloch ravenousness for a fresh supply 
of victims to be sacrificed in an endeavor to boil the re- 
calcitrant kettle. So there’s an end of the wood, any- 
way ! 

By no means. The life history of firewood is not 
completed with the dying embers that flicker a long time 
before giving up the ghost. The ashes of firewood — • 
and we have to admit that they serve a more utilitarian 
purpose than our own — after dropping through the 
grate are taken up and treasured in the ash-barrel in the 
back shed until some pleasant morning in May. Then 
the good housewife, assisted always by the omnipresent 

boy, pours scalding water down through the barrel of 
ashes. The water is touched by the last bit of life that 
the ash contains and trickles through the spigot as 
amber lye ; the lye, in turn, to be used in making the 
family soap for a twelve-month, except part of the last 
run, which is saved for hulled corn. 

Trees, logs, firewood, ashes and soap! From dust 
to dirt again. What object of nature ever went through 
so many changes and processes or, in every single meta- 
morphosis, came so intimately into contact with the 
daily life of the boy.?^ What wonder that youth has 
rebelled against the use of soap since its invention! 
It is a racial instinct on the boy’s part asserting itself 
from one generation to the next. Where the woodpile 
is, there the boy may be found, not from choice but 
because in the course of time every adult expects every 
boy to do his duty. This accounts for John Deane’s 
apparent faithfulness to the Nemesis of boyhood. At- 
tending to the woodpile in some form or other had been 
John Peane’s mission in life so long that he could not 


4 


SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


remember when there was not firewood to be chopped or 
sawed or piled up or lugged into the house. 

This was John Deane’s place in life at the opening of 
our narrative. He was only five years old when his 
parents attempted to cross the narrows » at Pretty 
Marsh. Their boat was capsized in a squall and al- 
though rescuers were prompt in reaching the scene of 
the disaster only the boy was saved. Since that day he 
had lived with his uncle, Captain Seth Hinds, now re- 
tired from the sea. The captain was a rough man 
whose early life had been filled with hardship. He still 
possessed at the noonday of life great bodily strength 
and vigor and was impatient that the rising generation 
should be growing up in easier paths than his had been. 
He carried on a thriving fishing business in Comberton 
with capital that he had saved from his struggles with 
the sea; although some of his neighbors were bold to 
suggest that the captain’s money had received no small 
accretions from crafty eluding of the customs officials 
when his vessel would return from voyages to the West 
Indies or South America. Nobody ever accused him of 
being kind hearted to the boy, or doubted that the bal- 
ance of the account between him and the boy, now going 
on ten years, was in favor of John Deane. 

The boy had had no childhood. He had received little 
enough attention during the years of his residence in the 
household of his uncle. He had been permitted to at- 
tend the winter term of district school, where he proved 
an apt pupil. Yet even this boon was denied him after 
his fourteenth birthday, since his time was too valuable 
to be wasted inside the schoolhouse. So he had reached 
his fifteenth year with muscles hardened before their 
time, and of unusual size and strength for a lad of his 
years. 

Long before I reached the woodpile I could hear him 
splitting wood. I caught occasional gleams of his a^ 


ALDERS AND HEMLOCK 


5 


as it flashed above the woodpile and hung in midair a 
moment before he drove it into a stick of wood with a 
resounding plock. He was surrounded by wood in vari- 
ous stages of manufacture — logs of sled-wood length 
untouched as yet by the saw and still firmly imbedded in 
ice and snow at the bottom of the pile; heaps of round 
sticks piled in a semi-circle and awaiting the time of 
their dismemberment by the remorseless ax; and the 
freshly split firewood that had been flung back against 
the shed out of the way of the worker. 

“ Hello, John,” I cried, suddenly appearing from be- 
hind the larger pile of wood ; ‘‘ what are you doing? ” 

John rested his ax against his foot and pushed back 
his cap before replying. 

“ What do you think, David ? Does it look as if I 
was peeling apples ? ” He answered as if he was in a 
half-way mood from his absorption in the work to a 
happier fate of chatting with me. 

“ It looks as if I was splitting wood, doesn’t it? ” he 
resumed. “ Well, I am and I am not. When you think 
about the thing you are doing, it is work ; and when you 
do the thing you want to it is more like play ; but when 
you do one thing and think about another you don’t 
know in the end whether you have been working or 
thinking. I’ve split wood all day with my hands and 
done something else with my head. They can make a 
boy split wood but they can’t tell what he will think 
about all the time.” 

As he paused for a moment I took the ax from his 
hand to relieve him at splitting, for I knew too well that 
the inmates of the Hinds’ household would expect to hear 
saw or ax going much of the time. John sat down 
against the big pile of wood. 

I split several sticks in silence, not knowing just what 
was proper for me to say. I understood John Deane’s 
case probably as no other person in Comberton did; it 


6 


SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


seemed pitiable to me, as indeed it was. I did venture 
to hearten him by suggesting that he got a good bit of 
work done for a boy of his age. 

“ You bet I do,” he responded quickly. I know 
what ‘ birch tea ’ is when he serves it. Do you know 
how I manage to do so much work? No? Well, it’s 
spite. Spite, do you hear? I don’t do it for love of 
him or her or anything about the old ranch. When I 
saw up a log of wood it is somebody with a dozen heads 
that I’m sawing off and kicking in the face as they fall 
off the horse into the sawdust. Almost every stick I 
split I’m smashing in somebody’s skull and wondering 
what kind of looking brains they’ve got inside. Some- 
times it’s him, sometimes it’s A’nt Abbie. I don’t be- 
lieve it is a good thing for a boy to be thinking about 
such things.” 

He mopped the sweat from his forehead before taking 
the ax out of my hand to resume his splitting. From 
time to time he paused in his work to talk with me. 

“ An’t Abbie is bad enough but in a different way 
from him. I’d rather take two of his lickings than one 
of her tongue-lashings. He just riles you up and makes 
you feel like fighting him when you get growed up. She 
makes you feel small and mean and no-account, and she 
keeps it up all day long when she gets started. Lickings 
hurt pretty much but they don’t last long; the jawing 
hurts something inside of you that won’t heal up quick.” 

He stopped for a moment to gaze at the ground as if 
his mind was running over sore places that had not been 
healed. I held my counsel but I was sure my companion 
knew that he had a sympathetic listener ; as a matter of 
fact he had still another of whom neither of us was 
aware, one who was not sympathetic, however. 

“ Some days she is as good as pie to me,” he re- 
sumed. “ When I go up in the porch chamber at night 
and crawl into my strawbed I just have to cry, I’m so 


ALDERS AND HEMLOCK 


*7 


happy that she has been good to me or unhappy that it 
won’t last long, I never know which. He never does 
anything like that. No, sir! He’s the same all the 
time only worse, watching to see if he can get more work 
out of me or get a phance to beat me. And all the time 
he keeps flinging out how he used to work when he was 
a boy.” 

I held my peace. When the heart speaks out it is 
useless for the head to attempt reply. John went on, 
tapping with his ax-handle upon different sticks of wood 
as he spoke. 

‘‘ Firewood is a good deal like men and women, David. 
Some is good for one thing, some for another, and some 
no good at all. Here’s the maple, straight and fine to 
make ax-handles and pudding-sticks out of, the same as 
some folks are square and good to you and useful about 
the home. There’s a yellow-birch. It is tough but 
good for whiffle-trees and sled-bunks and runners though 
it looks rough on the outside ; makes me think of some 
sea-capta’ns who have had lots of knocks in the world 
but are not too nice to help other folks. Fir! Why, 
that reminds me of these meeting-house folks at the 
Corner. When they’re cool they are all right, but let 
them warm up a little and the pitch sticks all over you 
so you have to use kerosene and soft soap to get it off.” 

He paused and lowered his voice before proceeding 
further. “ Alders is like A’nt Abbie, crooked and small 
and all over the lot. They are never straight like other 
wood and you can’t get them to do what you want ; but 
they make a fine blaze, hot as huldy while it lasts and 
gone out in five minutes. Alders grow where other wood 
won’t and you cut them out of the pasture so the cows 
will have a better chance to feed. Folks don’t usually 
cut them for firewood, they are such a nuisance,” and he 
emphasized his disgust by picking up a crooked alder 
stick and flinging it over the woodpile. It struck, inak- 


8 


SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


ing a big commotion for so little a stick, but the signifi- 
cance of the noise did not occur to me until the next 
afternoon. 

“ As for hemlock,” he said, slashing the ax spitefully 
into a big knotty stick, “ that’s him, big and knotty and 
bristling all over with needles to stick into you. As 
crossgrained as a bear; you try to split it when it is 
frosty and like as not it will snap a piece out of your 
ax blade ; try it when the wood is warm and the ax will 
stick in so hard you cannot drive it out with a clout of 
wood. 

“ Ever notice a hemlock board } ” he inquired, 
straightening up. “ Usually it is the widest in the 
whole pile, pretending to be good lumber; but it is the 
meanest, shakiest slab that ever came from a sawmill. 
They use hemlock bark for tanning leather, you know. 
Well, that’s his game exactly, using himself to tan my 
hide. The way to handle hemlock sticks is to hit them 
right in the middle of a knot, for the knots reach down 
into the heart of the stick. Alders is mean enough, but 
hemlock is grandfather to meanness. 

‘‘ Alders and hemlock ! That’s what I call these 
folks. They make me think of Sam Austin’s oxen, 
each one blind in the eye next his mate. They look 
out for themselves with their well eye and when they are 
yoked up they sort of sidle along to each other as they 
go — and both of them are ugly enough.” 

I had to laugh out loud as he finished his tirade on 
wood and people. My sudden outburst of laughing and 
the freeing of his mind of thoughts over which he had 
been brooding during the day set him in a better humor. 
We fell to discussing other matters and I had a chance 
to mention the subject for which I had come for an inter- 
view. 

“ I suppose you are going to the launching to-mor- 
row.^ ” I inquired nervously, fearing he would declare his 


ALDERS AND HEMLOCK 


9 


inability to attend that important event in Comberton’s 
history. 

“ That’s so, it is to-morrow, sure enough. I hadn’t 
given it much thought. Don’t see how I can go very 
well. I’ll have my stent to do and even if I got it done 
they wouldn’t let me off for a half day.” 

“ Oh, that’ll be all right,” I hastened to reassure him. 
“ I’ll come over and help you in the morning and we can 
slip away all right after dinner. The sun doesn’t set 
until half past six, anyway. We’re sure to be back from 
launching by four. Plenty of time for us to finish the 
pile after that.” 

“Yes, but how will I manage with the folks?” he 
ventured, pondering the question a while before replying. 
“It will be Saturday and I guess he’ll be too busy at 
the store to keep track of me. A’nt Abbie never bothers 
me out here unless the woodbox gets empty. I’ll load 
it to the muzzle in the morning.” 

Thus we planned for the future, innocently and with- 
out misgivings. A quarter-day holiday meant big 
things to John Deane. As the results proved it meant 
more than either of us had imagined. 


CHAPTER II 


BOYHOOD DREAMS 

N O activity of Comberton interested me so much 
as the shipbuilding. Every one of the Com- 
berton fleet was hand-made, like Comberton 
wharves and houses and warm woolen frocks that men- 
folks wore in cold weather. In these later days ship- 
building is a rarer industry along the Maine waterfront. 
Forty years ago, however, when the American merchant 
marine consisted of wooden ships, manned by men of 
iron, the metallic click of the oakum mallet could be 
heard resounding from a hundred bays and inlets of the 
coast. Ships that were to engage in merchant marine 
service were constructed in the larger shipyards. The 
deep-sea fishing fleet for the most part consisted of two- 
masted schooners ranging in tonnage from seventy to a 
hundred tons. 

The fishing boats, which included all craft below 
twenty tons, aff*orded abundant opportunity for the 
novice to try his skill in design and workmanship. Often 
a crude boat would be built during the winter months in 
barn or shed and hauled to the water’s edge in the early 
spring by a dozen yokes of oxen. It was a day for the 
whole community, the day of the hauling bee, partici- 
pated in by the men with their beasts of burden and by 
the women with their contributions of doughnuts and hot 
coffee; in the evening the owner of the boat would give a 
party at his home. They were slow days, those oxen 
days, but they were mostly unspoiled ones. 

It is an interesting game to watch the building of a 
10 


BOYHOOD DREAMS 


11 


ship. You see huge timbers laid straight and true for 
the keel ; ribs, carved and curved by the adz and broad 
ax, fitted securely in place and fairly welded to the keel 
under the terrific blows of iron sledges ; the oak plank- 
ing, warm and pliant from its steam bath, spiked to the 
curving ribs ; the fantastically carved hackmatack 
“ knees ” used for inner braces ; the planking of the 
hold that is destined to conceal the lurking place of 
that most distressing marine product, bilge-water; the 
stem and stern-posts set in place, standing for a time 
alone like totem poles until they are finally joined to one 
another by indissoluble bands “ so long as the ship 
shall live ” ; braces, deck timbers, planks and rails all 
welded together and held firmly in place by long wooden 
pins or stout iron spikes. Of such stuff is the body of 
the ship made, out in the open sunlight where all may 
view her daily growth and witness the strength of her 
parts. 

Still the ship is not complete. Like a new statute, it 
is useless without its proper seal and official sanction. 
Oakum and hot tar put the seal of durability upon the 
new hull, — oakum that is driven into every crack and 
crevice under the merciless blows of the long-headed 
mallets, tar that is poured boiling hot upon the oakum 
to keep it in place and protect it from the water; this 
is the official seal of the shipbuilder’s art. Afterwards 
come masts and spars and sails and cordage and paint, 
all important and necessary to the equipment of a sail- 
ing craft. But the hull is the ship, the other parts are 
accessories ; when the hull is finished, even before it is 
wrapped in the swaddling clothes of spars and sails and 
cordage, it is time for the ship to be born. 

No boy with red blood in his veins will miss a launch- 
ing if he can help it. It was only a few minutes past 
one o’clock when John Deane and I, all out of breath 
from running, came to a halt under the bow of the new 


12 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


schooner. My forenoon had been divided between 
duties at home and part fulfillment of my promise to help 
him finish his daily stint at the woodpile. When the 
noon hour arrived we had come to the conclusion, with 
youth’s alluring confidence in our own judgment, that 
the small pile of wood left unfinished could be split in 
the later afternoon. 

“ Ain’t she a dandy ! ” exclaimed the excited boy, 
fondly running his hand over the curving bow. “ This 
is the lower bobstay,” he continued, touching the new 
steel rope that was firmly imbedded in the lower part of 
the stem, “ and that is the cutwater.” 

Little did I realize then that the time would come 
when I would thank my lucky stars for this same bob- 
stay and cutwater. Fortunately it is not revealed to 
youth which way the wheels of destiny will turn. A 
glorious time we had that afternoon going over the hull 
of the schooner almost literally foot by foot. The 
workmen were still busily engaged in preparing her for 
the launching; but two spry boys are not in the way of 
workmen very long at a time. 

We followed the water-line from stem to stern, noting 
especially the sharp bow that was then leading up to the 
‘‘ toothpick ” type of schooner later developed at the 
Essex yards. John knew much more about hulls and 
ships than I had supposed a boy of his age could. He 
had been a keen observer and an interested listener in 
Comberton for a decade. Later in the afternoon I 
learned why he was especially interested in shipbuilding. 

When we reached the schooner’s stern a happy sur- 
prise awaited us. Under the taffrail had been painted 
in white letters the name of the schooner and her port, 
“ Nimbus — Comberton” We fell to conjecturing 
what the name meant and where we had heard it used 
before. 

“ It sounds familiar and I almost have it on the tip 


BOYHOOD DREAMS 


13 


of my tongue,” said John, at length. ‘‘ Oh, I have it ! 
Don’t you remember in the physical geography where it 
tells about storms and clouds Nimbus is a cloud. Mr. 
Littlefield had us study about the different kinds and tell 
what the weather would be to-morrow. Nimbus ! 
That’s the storm cloud, David. Look out for a storm 
to-morrow.” 

He ended with a sweep of his arm toward the blue of 
the western sky. It did not look the least bit stormy to 
either of us, although there was a “ lee-set ” in the 
atmosphere of which neither of us had a suspicion. 

We clambered aboard the vessel and delved into every 
cranny and corner we could find. Then is the time to 
see a ship, while it is still fresh from the hands of the 
ship-carpenters, while heaps of curly shavings are lying 
about, the woodwork is unstained either by paint or dirt, 
the berths and lockers are empty, and the long “ run ” 
near the rudder-post invites one to explore its myste- 
rious recesses before cordage and rigging and fishing 
tackle effectually block the passage. The great, echo- 
ing hold is a grand playhouse, with sloping sides for 
walls ; the cook’s Tom Thumb quarters become a boy’s 
camp of the Robinson Crusoe type; and the wide, tri- 
angular berth way up in the bow of the schooner, with 
the weird dead-eye thrusting its sharp point down 
through the deck planking and watching you suspi- 
ciously from every angle you may turn, is Captain 
Kidd’s secret cavern where his ill-gotten treasures are 
concealed. We kicked the white shavings about the 
poop, we climbed over the cabin and fore-castle houses, 
pumped the windlass arms up and down, made a circuit 
of the decks by walking the rail, shinned out to the tip 
of the bowsprit only to return by the swaying foot- 
ropes, and ended our sport by taking charge of the 
wheel and directing the Nimbus in an imaginary voyage 
to Le Have bank. 


U SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


Afterwards there was time to explore the shipyard. 
We first fortified ourselves with huge pieces of tar from 
the barrel in the storehouse, broke off pieces of the lus- 
cious blackness and, after filling our mouths, stuffed our 
pockets with chunks of the same. We had the greatest 
fun down by the water’s edge, for the tide, a neap tide 
that had been selected for the launching of the schooner, 
was near the height of the flood. We skipped flat stones 
on the water and counted our accumulated wealth, each 
“ skip ” representing a dollar. On occasion a stone 
would scale upward instead of striking the water ; after 
a long sweep through the air it would turn downward 
again and “ cut an egg ” as it cleaved the water with- 
out making a splash. Sometimes a rock would skip 
until the wealth of circles mounted to twelve or fifteen, 
each of which would enlarge and overrun neighboring 
ciucles until the maze of circles and lunes created a ple- 
thora of wealth in our fertile imagination. 

We were called from the excitement of this sport by 
the bustle of people near the Nimbus. Already a crowd 
of men and larger boys was aboard the schooner. The 
props and posts had been removed from either side and 
the vessel rested upon its cradle. The heavy timbers 
upon which the cradle rested had been swabbed with 
grease to help the schooner slip more easily into the 
water, once she had been raised from her bed. When 
all was in readiness the workmen took their stations with 
long-handled mallets in hand to drive the wedges under 
the ship and start her down the ways. At a command 
from the boss-carpenter a dozen hammers swung in the 
air and struck the wedges under the framework. The 
blows fell quickly and with force. Slowly the vessel re- 
sponded to the effort. The hull gave a tremor as if 
waking to life and, while every breath in the crowd was 
momentarily held, the new Nimbus started slowly down 


BOYHOOD DREAMS 


15 


the ways to the waters that were straining higher every 
moment to meet their bride. 

“ There she goes ! She’s off ! ” exclaimed some over- 
anxious person in the crowd. The workmen upon see- 
ing the tremor of the. hull and hearing the cry from the 
crowd ceased their efforts with the mallets and ran from 
under the hull. It was a false start. Not two feet did 
the schooner move before she came to a dead stop. An- 
other cry came from the excited throng. ‘‘ She’s stuck ! 
She’s stuck on the ways ! ” And the more superstitious 
gazed anxiously and fearfully upon the black hull that 
loomed between earth and sky but was destined for 
neither place. 

The boss-carpenter shouted for the workmen to con- 
tinue their work, to stand under until the schooner was 
in the water. Once more the sledges resounded from 
under the keel, the swabbers spread grease more lib- 
erally upon the ways and, in the excitement of the mo- 
ment, eager men braced their shoulders against the 
stem and shoved with the strength of Samsons against 
the unyielding wall of wood. Their combined efforts 
were not in vain. The hull again started; it moved 
down the plane faster and faster until it had gained a 
momentum that no force could stop. 

It was a pretty launching, as they always are. The 
back-wash of the wave came far up the beach to wet 
the feet of the too venturesome and caused a ripple of 
laughter that dispelled the moment of gloom which had 
settled upon the on-lookers when the Nimbus had stuck 
on the ways. Fifty yards from the shore the port 
anchor was released and, as it sank into the river, 
splashed water for the firs-t time upon the cat-heads of 
the Nimbus , — that port anchor about which we shall 
learn interesting details later. 

The crowd on deck rushed from rail to rail rocking 


16 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


the vessel as children rock a boat. Down she went on 
the port side and hung there for a time even after a 
part of the crowd had scrambled up the steep deck to 
the opposite rail. Down in turn upon the starboard 
side, and again the same unwillingness to right herself 
quickly. 

“ See how she rocks ! She’s got a big list when she 
goes down,” exclaimed an old sea-captain near whom we 
were standing. “ She sets up in the water fine. What 
a high bow she has got and see how that stick ” — indi- 
cating the bowsprit — “ is poked out forward. But I 
don’t like the way she stays down by the scuppers ; 
looks as if she would need a pile of ballast in her hold 
to keep her on an even keel in a gale of wind.” 

“ It don’t matter much, my ’pinion, how she sails,” 
commented an old fisherman near by. No ship ever 
got stuck on the ways at the launching but went down 
to Davy Jones’ locker mighty soon after she got out to 
sea, ’s I remember things. Recollect how the Alice Cole 
stuck on the ways and was wrecked on Seal Island first 
trip to the banks.'’ I don’t want no part of ships as 
sticks on the ways.” 

We were too deeply interested in the fun that the 
men and boys on the Nimbus were having to be dis- 
turbed by the lugubrious comments of the old salt. The 
ship was there in the stream, the very newest thing in the 
world at that moment. We were drawn toward her be- 
cause we had had to plan carefully to be present at the 
launching. In fact, we felt a sort of ownership in the 
craft, for we knew no other schooner so intimately or 
favorably as our experiences of the afternoon had made 
it possible for us to know the Nimbus, When you have 
invested time and interest in an object you will stand 
up for it even in the face of incriminating evidence 
against the object of your affection. That is how we 
felt toward the new schooner ; we stood up for the Nim- 


BOYHOOD DREAMS 


17 


bus when she was launched ; it was our fortune to stand 
bj her together through many vicissitudes later; and 
when finally the angry seas broke her back on the Nova 
Scotia ledges we two were the last to leave her deck. 

It was not until the crowd began to dwindle that we 
were reminded of the necessity of hurrying back to the 
woodpile. Four o’clock had come and gone while the 
Nimbus was rocking in the tide as the crowd rushed 
from starboard to port. We reluctantly turned our 
backs upon the schooner and hastened up through the 
flake-yards with heads down and arms swinging as we 
walked. We were startled out of the reverie into which 
each of us had fallen after leaving the exciting picture 
behind us by a woman’s voice calling from the cook- 
house doorway, “ David Graham, are you getting too 
good to speak to your old friends? ” 

It was “ Aunt ” Susan Condon, the cook of the ship- 
yard, one of the friends of our family. We stopped 
and before either had time to say anything she went on, 
“ Why don’t you come over here and tell me about the 
launching? That’s where you have been, isn’t it? 
Perhaps I can scare up a doughnut or two for a couple 
of hungry boys.” 

“ Want to? ” said I, turning to John Deane, anxious 
to go but not willing to admit that the going would be 
as a result of my own decision. 

“It’s pretty late now, isn’t it?” John commented 
half heartedly and in a way that betokened interest in 
“ Aunt ” Susan’s doughnut jar. 

“ ’Twon’t take but a minute and we’ll feel better if 
we rest a little while before tackling the woodpile,” I 
answered. 

True to her promise the good woman found a plate of 
doughnuts, — the big, twisted kind made with molasses 
instead of sugar for sweetening. She also brought out 
a pitcher of milk and some hot biscuit and butter. I 


18 


SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


was rather provoked at John Deane. He acted as if 
he did not care whether he ate or not, while I knew that 
he did. Probably his reticence was due to his not being 
so well acquainted with ‘‘ Aunt ” Susan as I was. After 
dint of coaxing and suggesting on her part she got us 
seated at the table. 

“ Now you can tell us about the launching,” she said, 
as each of us seized a biscuit from the plate and gave it 
temporary preferment over the tar. While I doled out 
our afternoon’s experiences to her between bites of hot 
biscuit, John Deane remained silent except as I turned 
to him occasionally for a nod to corroborate my narra- 
tive. “ Aunt ” Susan sat opposite, listening to my 
story as she kept the biscuit and butter close in front 
of us. 

“ Why don’t you have some butter on your biscuit? ” 
she inquired of John. 

‘‘ I don’t eat butter with hot biscuit,” John replied, 
as if surprised at sight of my prodigality in its use. 

“ Don’t eat butter on hot biscuit ! ” the good woman 
exclaimed. Why, that’s the making of them. What 
do you eat on them ? ” 

“ Pork-fat on bread ; but I don’t eat biscuits much 
anyway,” answered the boy. 

‘‘ Don’t they have butter up to your house ? They 
don’t eat pork-fat on everything, do they? ” 

“ They have butter sometimes at their table,” he 
added, reluctantly, and meaning his uncle and aunt. 

“ Don’t you eat with them ? ” inquired “ Aunt ” 
Susan, interested and curious about the living habits of 
the Hinds family. 

“ No’m, I eat off the kitchen shelf.” 

^^And don’t they let you eat with them ever.?*” 
No’m, except when he’s away. Then A’nt Abbie 
lets me eat with her.” 

“ Do you have butter then ? ” 


BOYHOOD DREAMS 


19 


No’m, they never give me butter. Usually I don’t 
get hot biscuit. They say bread is better for growing 
boys. I suppose that’s why I’m so big for my age,” he 
volunteered good naturedly, anxious to put things in 
the most favorable light. 

Try some butter on these biscuit anyway,” insisted 
the good woman, pushing the butter plate over to him. 
“ I guess you are being brought up under man-of-war 
rules. Good for discipline, perhaps, but not attractive 
to growing boys. I’ve had boys of my own and know 
that all boys are pretty much the same.” 

She filled us to the brim with her good things. Even 
after we protested that we could eat no more she put a 
couple of twisted doughnuts in our hands when we 
started away from the cook-house door. Fortunate 
woman, to know what boys want most and have a heart 
big enough to fulfill the want ! It did not matter so 
much now what might happen to us, we were fortified 
with a good luncheon. John Deane was happy in hav- 
ing had a human being take an interest in him, an occur- 
rence that had been rare for many years in the Hinds’ 
household. 

On the brow of the ridge we paused to look back 
before losing sight of the shipyard and wharves for the 
day. John Deane stood in silence watching the scene of 
the afternoon’s activities. Many things had occurred 
in the few hours by the river’s edge. The dreams of 
boyhood that had been slumbering for years and unre- 
vealed to others since nobody appeared to have an ap- 
preciative ear, pushed hard to the forefront, especially 
under “ Aunt ” Susan’s shrewd questioning and hearty 
interest. For a time we looked in silence; then, with- 
out turning, he disclosed his secret thoughts. 

“ That’s what I want, David, ships and wharves and a 
chance to make something of myself. I’d like to go to 
the Grand Banks and work like real men and some day 


20 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


be “ high-liner ” of the Harvest Home. Perhaps I 
could be cap’n in time and sail a vessel where I wanted 
to, off to the West Indies and Spain and Newfoundland. 
I’m going to, if I live. I’m not going to slave all my 
life for Seth Hinds. I’m going to be cap’n and beat his 
cap’ns and come in with the biggest fare ever Comber- 
ton has seen. David, this has been the happiest day of 
my life.” 

But a day does not end until after sundown. 


CHAPTER III 


FROSTY HEMLOCK 

I T still lacked an hour of sunset. We felt sure, as 
we hastened along the road, that we could easily 
finish the day’s stint of work before dark. It did 
not occur to us to return to the woodpile under covert 
of the fence and barnyard as we had gotten away. 
Captain Hinds was always at the store at this time of 
day and John’s Aunt Abbie rarely bothered herself with 
affairs outside her kitchen. So we continued up the 
road to the driveway and headed for the woodpile back 
of the barn. 

We had nearly reached the corner of the barn when 
the door opened suddenly and Seth Hinds stepped into 
view. In his right hand he held a yellow-birch switch 
four feet in length and as thick through as a man’s 
finger. He did not speak, simply raised his left arm 
toward us and crooked his forefinger ominously back 
and forth. John Deane took a deep breath as he turned 
silently away from me toward the man. The two dis- 
appeared in the barn, the door was shut and I stood 
excluded from a scene which, my feelings told me, would 
be enacted without sympathy from behind closed doors. 

There was a half-window at the back of the barn 
placed about five feet up to let light into the barn- 
floor. In a twinkling I had scooted around the barn 
and taken my station at the window, carefully and with 
only an edge of my face exposed, for the window let in 
a flood of sunset light and I would be discovered easily 
if one looked toward the window. 

21 


22 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


Inside was the familiar scene I had known from the 
first rainy day John Deane and I had played together. 
There was the ground-mow at my left, now well emptied 
of its winter’s store ; the family wagon stood gray with 
mud in the middle of the floor back by the big doors ; 
an open sheep-pen was at my right and farther along 
closed stalls for the family horse and cow ; ladders stood 
on either side of the floor upon which we had practiced 
“ going aloft ” so many times ; and a pitchfork, always 
placed next the ladder, stood against the stall. It was 
the usual ship-shape orderliness to be found on the 
premises of a sea-captain. 

John Deane stood in the center of the floor facing the 
window at the back of the barn. He had already taken 
off his thick woolen frock and thrown it upon the dash- 
board of the wagon behind him. On his left and side- 
ways to me Seth Hinds had taken his stand, his jaws 
shut grimly, his legs apart as if he were on a quarter- 
deck in a gale of wind, and in his hand the yellow-birch 
stiff and straight as a rapier. 

“ So ye will run away to a lanchin’, will ye ? ” he 
began. “ I’ll learn you one sweet lesson, my boy, that 
you can’t buy at any store,” and he brought the stick 
down across John Deane’s back and shoulders with 
resounding whacks. 

“ Take that!” 

He gave the boy a vicious cut across the legs that 
made him wince with the pain. Beyond buckling for- 
ward with his knees the boy made no sign or sound. 
From my station at the window I could see his face set 
hard and his eyes flash defiance; but he gave his uncle 
no look or word. 

“ Do it again, will ye ? ” 

No response came either to the question or the blows 
that followed it. 

“ Answer me, or I’ll tan yer hide like they tan hemlock 


FROSTY HEMLOCK 


23 

bark, ’s ye tell about,” and the brute laid the blows on 
harder and faster than before. 

John stood helpless, in great pain, all the vim of re- 
sistance taken out of his body by the repeated blows. 
Even his face had changed, for his jaw relaxed and 
began to tremble nervously. Yet he made no reply nor 
did he protest against the merciless beating he was 
receiving. 

“ I am frosty hemlock, am I? ” continued the infuri- 
ated man. “ Frosty hemlock ! I’ll hemlock you so’t 
you’ll let me and lanchin’s alone after this, you ungrate- 
ful wretch.” 

He was as good as his word and as bad as his looks. 
The birch whistled through the air and fell with unceas- 
ing cruelty upon the quivering back and legs of the boy. 
Tears came into the lad’s eyes and dropped unchecked to 
the threshing-floor at his feet, not tears of repentance 
but of hopelessness that no hand or voice in all the world 
was raised to help him. 

At first I was afraid. I trembled all over as I wit- 
nessed my friend’s punishment. As the brutality con- 
tinued and the man became white with passion, horror 
seized me. I dared not stir even from the window for 
fear of attracting his attention and having his anger 
spend itself on me. 

“ Speak up,” he yelled, seizing hold of the boy’s 
shoulder and shaking him. “ Speak up, or I’ll whale it 
out of ye. Do it again or won’t ye.^ ” 

John was trembling from head to foot and every blow 
drove light from his eyes. Seth Hinds was heartless. 
He had been a hard master at sea. It was an unusual 
experience for him to be denied what he demanded of 
those over whom he had authority. He could easily 
have knocked the boy senseless with a blow of the fist 
but that would not have accomplished the ends he sought. 

“ Oh, I heard ye runnin’ me down and yer A’nt Abbie 


U SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


that feeds ye,” he continued as he raised the stick on 
high again. “ Who else would ’a’ taken ye in these past 
ten years, ye thankless dog! You’re no good anyway, 
and none of yer folks was before ye.” He paused again 
to let the words sink into the boy’s understanding. 
‘‘ They never ’mounted to nothin’ and you never will 
either.” 

By this time the terror that had held me gave place 
to resentment and rage. The man had been sneaking 
behind the woodpile the afternoon before and had over- 
heard all that John Deane had said when he spoke out 
his pent-up feelings. Then he had purposely allowed 
the boy to get away to the launching that he might give 
him a whipping upon his return. One thing a boy can- 
not stand is a sneak, whether he be big or little. I stood 
flushed with rage, a helpless witness of the brutality be- 
fore my eyes. 

The yellow-birch was again in the air and I could 
hear the blows fall heavily as the beast continued : 
“ Launchin’ the Nimbus, was ye.^ I’ll print Nimbus 
on yer hide so’t you’ll remember her while she floats. 
There’s the N.” As he said these words he cut three 
sharp strokes one after the other that would easily have 
left the print of the letter N on the boy’s back but for 
the red welts already there. 

“A — I — M — ” the blows fell unceasingly. John 
Deane made no response; he suffered intense pain; his 
eyes were closed, his hands clenched, his body swayed 
unsteadily back and forth. 

In my rage everything looked black to me. But when 
the creature began to stencil-plate the letters on John’s 
back with the birch the blackness burst into a red flame 
of fury. The David Graham whom I had known sud- 
denly forsook me. The next thing I knew I had rushed 
around the barn and burst through the door. A raging 


FROSTY HEMLOCK 


25 


demon and furies over whom I had no control possessed 
me. 

“ Don’t you hit him again, you coward ! ” I cried, 
rushing up and seizing his uplifted arm. ‘‘ Why don’t 
you take somebody your size.^ ” 

I could well have meant myself. At the moment noth- 
ing in the world seemed impossible to me. For an in- 
stant Seth Hinds was taken back with surprise. His 
arm never gave the blow that he had intended for my 
friend. He turned upon me savagely and swung me 
backwards off my feet as he turned. I fell in a heap, 
my head striking against the horse-stall. Before I 
could rise or get out of his way he struck me across the 
legs and back with blows that stung like hot irons. 

“ You impudent brat! I’ll learn ye to mind yer own 
business,” he hissed at me. But he did not get far with 
his instruction. 

When I fell I knocked over the fork that stood against 
the stall. As I scrambled to my feet one of the demons 
within me put the fork in my hands. I’m sure of that, 
for I have no remembrance in those exciting moments 
when details were printed indelibly on my mind of con- 
sciously taking the fork. When I got on my feet there 
it was clutched firmly in both my hands. In another 
moment I was rushing at Seth Hinds as wild as a Turk. 
I jabbed at him viciously, struck him, poked him and 
swung at him with the dangerous weapon. He tried at 
first 'to get hold of the pitch-fork; but I hit down with 
the weapon and one of the sharp tines grated deeply 
across his hand with a scratch that he never lost. He 
leaped backward, throwing up his hands to parry a 
thrust at his face. The fork tines went through each 
hand and came back streaked with blood when I yanked 
the fork away. 

My demon pressed me on and I pressed Seth Hinds, 


26 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


He dodged and retreated but always emerged from every 
encounter with fresh scratches and punctures. I drove 
him to the back of the barn and cornered him by the 
sheep-pen, prodding him furiously as he retreated. 
Neither spoke a word. He was helpless with rage, I was 
speechless. I had him in a tight place. Probably the 
tough sea-captain never had a more uncomfortable mo- 
ment on board his ship, where he was accustomed to be 
master even if belaying-pins and broken heads were 
forthcoming to secure the mastery. Now he was being 
routed in his own barn by a thirteen-year-old, routed 
ignominiously and in imminent danger every moment of 
having a fork tine unceremoniously jabbed into his vitals 
by an infuriated boy whose rage knew neither check nor 
discretion. He was alongside the sheep-pen which was 
boarded off the barn-floor by a rail about a yard high. 
Suddenly as he parried a blow with his left hand he 
placed his right on the board rail and leaped quickly 
into the pen. I did not follow him there. As he went 
over the board I gave him a jab that brought yells out 
of him. He tumbled into the pen and scrambled on all 
fours out of the reach of my weapon. I turned to John 
Deane. He was still standing in the middle of the floor, 
his eyes wide open in horror at what I was doing. 

“ Get out of here quick,” I said, seizing him by the 
arm, and starting to turn him toward the door. 

“ Look out, David ! ” he exclaimed, for his eyes were 
still fixed fearfully upon his uncle. 

It was fortunate for me that he was alert to the 
danger behind us. I turned just in time to see Seth 
Hinds stepping quietly over the low boards, a three- 
tined fork in his hands and such a look on his face as I 
never expect to see again on a human. Blood was 
streaming from his hands and face and, I knew only too 
well, from his body and legs also. He looked the demon 
that he was, although I have to confess that much of the 


FROSTY HEMLOCK rt 

local color ” of this human sieve was the result of my 
own handiwork. 

“You young hellyun!” he bellowed, lowering his 
weapon and leaping toward me. “ I’ll spear yer black 
heart on these tines, else my name ain’t Seth Hinds.” 

The interesting part of what followed was that I 
turned to meet him, eager to get at him again. My 
demons surely were suffering no relapse. As I have 
since thought about the event I have been unable to 
account for my conduct. Up to this period of my life 
I had lived quietly as most boys do, never an aggressor, 
never picking a quarrel or avoiding a healthy one that 
was pressed upon me. To change in a twinkling from 
a sedate schoolboy to a raging Turk was an occurrence 
beyond my experience or knowledge. When I had 
turned to John Deane I was plain David Graham; when 
I again faced Seth Hinds I became Demon Turk. 

The duel did not last long. Although I met the cap- 
tain half-way and with an equally stout heart, I had 
neither the strength nor skill nor reach of arm to stand 
up before his onslaughts for long. He charged, I re- 
treated ; he lunged and I leaped to one side ; he whirled 
about and tried to get me by an upward thrust, but my 
fork met his and the tines of the two caught together. 
With a quick jerk and twist he yanked his fork upward, 
wrenching my weapon from my hands. It flew across 
the floor and landed near the door, far out of my reach. 

I leaped backward out of his way. My heel caught 
upon a plank and I half fell against the low mow of hay, 
my feet away in front of me, my shoulders back on the 
hay, and both my arms thrown up and back against the 
mow to keep me from falling backwards. I was in a 
sorry plight. Never could I have assumed a more satis- 
factory position for the spearing process than had sud- 
denly befallen me. My whole front was rounded out 
towards the creature before me, exposed and undefended. 


28 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


For an instant only Seth Hinds hesitated. Then con- 
scious that in another moment I would recover my bal- 
ance, he leaped forward to pin me to the mow. I did 
not see the fork tines at all, fortunately for me, since 
they were below my range of vision. I saw only his 
face, — the bloody streaks, the white eyes under fierce 
brows, the mop of hair fallen over his forehead. It 
was not pleasant to see that rushing toward me. 

Then something happened. There was a flash 
through the air; diagonally across the face before me 
there came a white welt as if the flesh had been seared 
from a bolt of lightning. Seth Hinds dropped the mur- 
derous fork ; he pressed two bloody hands hard against 
his face, a face like a scarlet shield, with a white streak 
dividing it from left to right. 

“ O God ! ” he cried, doubling over and still pressing 
hard against his face. “ Oh — oh — h ! ” 

“ Quick, David,” I heard John Deane say. 

He stood holding the yellow-birch stick in his hand, 
his face white, an eager look in his eyes. We hurried 
to the door, where my foot struck against the fork han- 
dle. When I got outside I found the fork again in my 
hands, but I could have sworn I did not stoop to pick it 
off the floor. The last I saw inside the barn was the out- 
line of the man swaying to and fro, his teeth set hard, 
his hands to his face, and heard the agonized tones, the 
long drawn out “ Oh — h ! ” of the “ frosty hemlock ” 
whom John Deane had cracked with a single blow. 

We started up the road toward my father’s house. I 
tried to put my arm about my companion to steady him, 
for he was woefully weak. The pressure against his 
back was too much for him to bear. He leaned heavily 
on my shoulder while I held his arm as we moved along. 

My mother met us at the door. She suspected that 
something unusual had happened as she saw us approach- 
ing, John still holding the yellow-birch in his hand, pale 


FROSTY HEMLOCK 


29 


and trembling and leaning on me, I bearing a bloody 
tined pitch-fork and looking as I am sure my mother 
never saw me look. 

Without a word we passed into the kitchen, where I 
assisted John to a chair that mother brought up. He 
sat down unsteadily, his arms fell helpless to his sides, 
his head sank forward and before either of us knew what 
was happening he pitched forward to the floor in a dead 
faint. Mother helped me place him on the sofa. Then, 
without attempting to restore him to consciousness, I 
unfastened his woolen shirt and lifted it off* his back. 
My poor mother gave one agonized look, then fled to the 
back door and called excitedly for my father. 

When father came in and beheld the pitiful object on 
the couch he exclaimed in horror, “ Who did that? ” I 
could only point to the quivering flesh and mumble 
“ Cap’n Hinds’ work ” before I burst into tears that 
blinded me from the terrible sight. 


CHAPTER IV 


THE WHARVES OF COMBERTON 

C OMBERTON, the town of my nativity, was a 
thriving fishing port while I was passing through 
the most impressionable years of my life. Its 
southern front rests lightly on the waters of a land- 
locked bay, since the Maine coast here is low, which 
makes the adjacent waters shallow and unsuited to navi- 
gation. An inlet of the bay forms the western bound- 
ary of the town and separates the ambitious little port 
from the less pretentious farming community opposite. 
Long ago the inlet was named the Latona river, though 
for what reason the oldest inhabitant of the place is 
unable to state or to explain why the stream of water is 
called a river at all, since it is evident to the most care- 
less observer that the inlet serves more as a means for 
daily invasions of the sea than as an outlet of fresh 
waters. 

Tidewater extends up the river a distance of two miles. 
Twice daily the outrushing tides strip the river clean of 
everything down to the slimy eelgrass and rockweed of 
its channel. Then dangerous looking rocks and ledges 
protrude and mussel-beds at the mouth of the river are 
uncovered just enough to warn mariners to steer their 
craft well toward the west shore when seeking to enter 
the river. With the return of the tides the river re- 
sumes a state of safety and respectability. On these 
occasions it drinks deeply off the lid of the sea until its 
swollen sides roll against the adjacent banks and re- 
30 


THE WHARVES OF COMBERTON 31 


store life to the wharves which, during the ebb tide, have 
hung helpless on their high pilings. 

Here, on the eastern shore of the river, the ancient 
fisheries of Comberton were carried on. At four places 
along the water front groups of wharves were built by 
the fishermen of the town. The wharves of Comberton 
became famous far out of proportion to their size or any 
beauty they may have had when they were first con- 
structed. Wharves at best are ugly things ; if they have 
any attractiveness at all it is due to their setting or 
associations. This was the case with the wharves of the 
Latona river. They had been roughly built from spruce 
logs piled and cross-piled together, then weighted down 
by heaps of muddy rocks, after which the whole struc- 
ture was flanked on three sides by rows of pilings driven 
deep into the mud of the river bottom. Ice and tides 
had worn them gray. Colonies of barnacles had climbed 
up the pilings as far as high-water mark, there to be 
supplanted by a green slime that needed only an occa- 
sional splash of salt water to prolong its useless life. 

To the people of Comberton these rough doorsteps 
to the sea held real attractiveness. They were legacies 
from a former generation, heirlooms of an industry and 
foresight that the most indifferent citizen could ill afford 
to neglect. The wharves were Comberton’s outlet to the 
world. Its name was known in Cadiz and Surinam, 
wherever Grand Bank cod and Magdalene herring were 
shipped, known for a quality of flavor not to be found 
in codfish and herring cured elsewhere in the western 
ports of the Atlantic. The first fishermen of Comber- 
ton never practiced sham. They were content to let the 
products of their wharves be their own advertisement 
and thus the fame of Comberton wharves and dories had 
spread into three continents. 

In my boyhood, fishermen of the third generation were 
pursuing the industry of the sea at the very wharves 


32 


SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


their grandsires had built. They continued to label 
their products with the same stencil — “ Cured in Com- 
berton ” — that had been in use before those stirring 
days when Comberton pinkies, with their sounding-leads 
melted into cannon balls, sailed forth as privateers in 
the War of 1812 to drive the British merchant marine 
from the high seas. 

Thus it became a part of the business creed of Com- 
berton fishermen to respect the institutions and prac- 
tices of their fathers. As their industry enlarged they 
aimed jealously to live up to the reputation that had 
preceded them in the maritime marts of the world. 
They were ambitious; yet, like the average New Eng- 
lander, a subconscious conservatism always marked their 
newest ventures. Whenever it became necessary to re- 
place a decaying timber of the wharf by a sound piece 
there still could be seen upon its weathered face, like the 
royal record written upon an Assyrian slab, the work of 
a grandsire whose steady hand had hewn close to the line 
with the great broadax. If the central pile of rocks 
had to be overhauled, as was necessary sometimes in re- 
building the wharves, the later generation would specu- 
late over the loads of stones as they worked, wondering 
from whose field they had been taken out, or what yokes 
of oxen had dragged them to the shore on yellow-birch 
drags ; and some one, the unconscious Hamlet of the 
crowd, would weigh a heavy stone in his hand and sug- 
gest that it might well have served Silas Young for a 
base-ball — so well had tradition recorded the size of 
that ancient worthy’s hand and the prowess of his arm. 

The sharp barnacles that found lodgment on the lower 
parts of the wharves gave little concern to the fishermen. 
Life first began in the sea, it will ever be the province 
of the sea to support life, Comberton knew that only too 
well. The annular growth of the crustaceans had been 
more than matched during the years by an annual in- 


THE WHARVES OF COMBERTON 


33 


crease in the prosperity of the townspeople. True it 
was that ice and tides had conspired to wear away at the 
fronts of the wharves; but the damage was slight in a 
season and to be passed over lightly when contrasted 
with the wealth of codfish and herring that men had 
seen their fathers hoist from the holds of schooners long 
since lost at sea. 

There were times when the head of a wharf would be 
littered with logs and timbers piled in the disorder of 
joggle-sticks — stems and sternposts, ribs, knees, spars 
and deck timbers thrown down in apparent confusion. 
Always, however, the magic hand of the boss ship-car- 
penter had brought order out of confusion until a day 
came when a new schooner, or a pinky, grown to full 
stature in its cradle, glided from the ways to find life 
in the nearby waters and, childlike, to splash the old 
wharf with its baptismal waves. Tradition recorded 
many tales of ships that had stuck on the ways while 
being launched and always doomed them to the ill luck 
of broken voyages or an early grave. And later genera- 
tions, mindful of the place where the ill-fated ship had 
stuck, would prudently avoid building other craft upon 
the unlucky spot. 

During the winter months work about the wharves was 
slack ; then the people of Comberton had time to pay 
fitting tribute to workmen of a former day. But in 
early spring during the rush of activities that preceded 
the sailing of the herring fleet for the Magdalenes, specu- 
lation gave place to vigorous work. The wharves were 
still of the present, if from the past. They still groaned 
with cargoes and codfish and herring, still swarmed with 
men and boys employed in curing, packing and shipping 
the products of Comberton dories. The wharves were 
Comberton, the forum of activity where the male popu- 
lace gathered at early dawn and remained until evening 
set in. It was from them that the ambitious youth of 


34 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


the town, aspiring always to the command of a grand- 
banker, embarked upon the eventful first deep-sea voy- 
age. From them the captains of the day in the flush of 
noontime prosperity sailed forth to seek the treasures of 
the deep, hoping as they passed beyond the bend of 
the river to make a record voyage. On pleasant days 
the gray generation, whose life currents already had set 
strongly in the ebb, were wont to gather here to keep in 
touch with the throbbing life of the community, to run a 
withered hand over fresh kenches of cod and, dreamy 
eyed, to listen for the hundredth time to the story of 
how Hance Joy had made a record run from Amherst 
Isle when the old Morning Glory was queen of the Com- 
berton fleet. 

This was the Comberton of my youth. Then strong 
men, the Jacobs of the fishing fleet, went forth to wrestle 
the season through against the storms and fogs of Le 
Have and Grand Bank. They were men of an iron gen- 
eration. Forty years have wrought great changes 
along the Maine coast. Wharves and fishermen have 
wellnigh disappeared before the irresistible invasion of 
summer folk — an invasion of new breeds and blood, a 
race of flit and shine in summer only. When the cold 
days come on and a silver fringe of ice binds the rugged 
shore the coast is deserted of its bright crowd. The old 
inhabitant remains a while longer ; the ancient wharves, 
landmarks of former virility, scarcely bear up through 
succeeding winters ; while the eternal ice and tides tear 
ruthlessly at the coast as they have done since the re- 
treating Ice Sheet left the deeply scarred shores bare 
and unfertile, and as they used to tear when the iron 
generation of my boyhood dared to defy their terrors 
through every season. 

In the last, best days of Comberton there was being 
reared one who would outrival the fame of the long 
list of sea-kings who had helped carry her products to 


THE WHARVES OF COMBERTON 


35 


the borders of distant seas. Two generations of fisher- 
men contributed their skill and enterprise in making her 
products world famous ; the third and last generation 
was contributing that highest product of all times and 
places, a noble man. 


CHAPTER V 


A DAY OF BARGAINS 

T he struggle at the barn stirred Comberton as no 
other event ever had done. For two weeks John 
Deane lay sick and delirious in our front room. 
While the young fellow was hanging between life and 
death the neighbors were most kind. They called at the 
house by the dozens. As the story got about town and 
the people realized that it had been all but a tragedy 
they made the affair their own. Every evening there 
were men or women to watch by the boy’s side during 
the night. The resentment against Seth Hinds 
amounted to a passion; fortunately for him he, too, 
was confined to his home or the citizens would have dealt 
with him harshly. 

My father questioned me sharply about the punish- 
ment that John Deane had received at the hands of his 
uncle. I gave him the details of our experiences up to 
the time of my entrance into the barn ; after that I be- 
came less definite, for I felt some shame at my unseemly 
conduct with the pitchfork. Also, I omitted telling him 
of the unhappy moment when I was lying back against 
the haymow and the terrible creature was rushing at me 
with pitchfork in hand. Later I overheard him recount- 
ing the tale to my mother. He had been wonderstruck 
at my feat and daring. “ Why, Ellen,” he told her, 
‘‘ there isn’t an able-bodied man in town who would have 
faced Captain Hinds so pluckily when he is in one of his 
36 


A DAY OF BARGAINS 


37 


mad spells. I don’t understand it, for I didn’t believe 
it was in the boy.” 

It was hard to believe. Yet there was the evidence: 
my own story, the frightful condition of John Deane’s 
back, the yellow-birch stick, and the bloody-tined fork. 
Furthermore, the condition of Captain Hinds was cor- 
roborative evidence that a fierce struggle had taken place 
in the barn. Only the doctor saw him for a fortnight. 
When my father called at his house the Sunday follow- 
ing the launching Mrs. Hinds, who met him at the door, 
told him rather curtly that “ the cap’n wasn’t seein’ 
callers to-day.” 

In a single afternoon I had become a personage of 
distinction. Wherever I went people would ply me with 
questions about the scrape. My father had warned me 
to talk little about the aflPair, so I held my peace en- 
tirely. This made me more of a hero than ever. 
Surely, people said, a boy who could put Seth Hinds 
to rout had some stuff in him. People whom I met took 
pains to speak to me with a respect that bordered on 
deference ; when I would pass by they would gaze at me 
as if I were a great curiosity. They could not under- 
stand what there was about me that should make me so 
formidable an antagonist. My wonderful feat at arms 
was noised abroad in neighboring towns and I became 
known everywhere as “ Pitchfork ” Graham. I had not 
told my parents or anybody else about the demons that 
came to me that eventful afternoon. I was not sure 
that the fighting Turks were not still lurking invisible 
in my system and, like the germs of a disease, were 
waiting for a favorable opportunity to spring to life. 

It was not long before my worst fears regarding the 
indwelling demons were corroborated by an incident at 
the wharves. A month after the launching of the Nim- 
bus John Deane and I once more stood upon her decks. 
He was still pale and haggard from his recent illness. 


38 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


It was our first appearance together since John was 
able to be about and, as a consequence, we attracted not 
a little attention. Even Captain Ober, of the Nimbus, 
became interested in us and took pains to show us about 
his new schooner. After we had made a circuit of the 
schooner the captain turned away from us to direct the 
work of his crew who were at work preparing the 
schooner for the long Grand Bank trip. We were 
standing near the main-rigging when suddenly Seth 
Hinds appeared from around a corner of the smoke- 
house on the wharf. As soon as he caught sight of my 
companion he strode across the wharf in our direction, 
looking straight and fiercely at John. 

I watched his movements closely. There was a kind 
of revolting satisfaction that I had at sight of the long 
red welt across his face and the pit marks made by my 
fork punctures flanking the scar above and below. He 
was the same unsympathetic, hard-hearted being that 
he had ever been ; no sign of pity came into his looks at 
sight of the pale face below him on the deck of the 
Nimbus, 

“ So you’re out again, are ye? ” he exclaimed, men- 
acingly. ‘‘Well, you can just mosey right back home 
instead of loafing around these wharves.” 

J ohn did not look up at him ; instead he fixed his gaze 
across the top of the wharf to the vessels beyond. His 
silence irritated the captain, whose underlying trait was 
always to get what he wanted and get it in a hurry. 

“ Do you hear me, I say ? Get back to the woodpile 
where yer place is. An’ the quicker ye go the healthier 
it’ll be for ye.” 

Everybody aboard the schooner had stopped his work 
intent only upon watching Seth Hinds and wondering 
what John Deane would do. Even Captain Ober, who 
had started down the companionway, turned back and 
took a position near us with one hand hold of the main- 


A DAY OF BARGAINS 


39 


rigging. With a steady voice and in a tone that I had 
never heard John Deane use, a voice so greatly in con- 
trast with the high-pitched nervous tone he had used 
when speaking of his uncle at the woodpile, he answered 
the man, Seth Hinds, I’m through with you. You can 
go right straight to — to where you belong ! ” And he 
thrust out his chin and looked him square in the eyes as 
he spoke. 

The nervous tension that was holding us broke sud- 
denly with these brave words. “ Good for you ! ” 
“ That’s the stuff 1 ” and other encouraging words came 
from the crew at our back. The captain was undaunted 
by the chorus of fishermen’s voices raised against him. 
The prospect of an encounter with them did not deter 
him in the least. He was irritated at finding the boy in 
another man’s schooner. John Deane’s defiant reply in 
the presence of a score of people angered him, too, but 
the interference of the crew in a matter that was his 
business and, as he looked at it, his only, roused him to 
a fury. He strode to the edge of the wharf, leaned over 
and shook his fist at the boy not four feet from his face. 

‘‘ You will come up here,” he shouted, red in the face, 
“ and you’ll come now. Climb up on this wharf quick 
or else I’ll come down there and throw you up ! ” 

It is not at all likely that either Captain Ober or the 
crew would have allowed Seth Hinds to lay a hand on 
John Deane. Some of them were only too eager to 
measure their strength against his. He could easily 
have handled two or three of the crew successfully, but 
he would have been worsted in the end. But there was 
no need for the crew to interfere. When Hinds stooped 
over and shook his fist in the pale face at my side anger 
filled me to the brim. I turned about for means of 
defense. Near by on the main-hatch were a half-dozen 
short-tined forks such as are used in the deep-sea fish- 
eries for pitching codfish from the dories to the schoon- 


40 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


er^s deck. Demons again ! I grabbed up one of the 
forks eagerly and took my station by John Deane’s side. 

“ Come right down, Mr. Hinds,” I cried spitefully, 
“ come right down. Take him now or leave him for- 
ever ! ” As I snapped the words out I held the fork up 
threateningly in the position of charge bayonets against 
horses. 

The crew shouted in derision. They jeered at the 
captain and encouraged my saucy attitude. They were 
all very brave men now that somebody had paved the 
way. Captain Ober, quick to see that his crew should 
not bear-bait another captain and uncertain what I 
might take it into my senseless head to do next, laid his 
hand on John’s shoulder. 

“ Come down to the cabin, John,” he said, “ I want to 
have a talk with you.” Then turning to me, “ That will 
do for now, David. Come along with us.” 

Half-reluctantly I followed the two into the cabin, 
but I took good pains to let Captain Hinds see that the 
fork went along with me. John and I nervously took 
seats on the port locker, every once in a while glancing 
up through the companionway in an apprehensive way 
lest our enemy should surprise us in an unexpected 
attack. But he went on his way after we had disap- 
peared in the cabin. 

Captain Ober took his stand in the middle of the 
cabin opposite John. He lost no time in taking up the 
subject about which he wished to consult with John. 
“ How would you like to go to the banks with me this 
summer, John.^ ” he began. ‘‘I can find a place for 
you all right and will give you a half-share. You’ll 
have a comfortable berth and wholesome food, anyway, 
with a few dollars all your own when we get back. I’ll 
venture you have not had too many of them so far in 
your life.” 

Had John been informed that he was sole heir to a 


A DAY OF BARGAINS 


4>1 

fortune he would not have been more pleased or sur- 
prised. This was the opportunity of his life, just what 
he had longed for through many weary years. To go 
to sea, to go in the new Nimbus, to have Captain Ober 
for skipper, that was a combination of happy possi- 
bilities that his wildest imagination had not pictured. 
On the other hand, to be free forever from the woodpile, 
free from jawings and whippings, free from “alders 
and hemlock,” from daily “ stents ” and pork fat, this 
put a gilt edge to every new page of life which was sud- 
denly opening before him. Without a moment’s hesita- 
tion John replied, “ I’d like to go with you first rate, 
sir.” 

So it was agreed. He was given the starboard berth 
in the cabin way up next “ the run ” where he would be 
out of the older men’s way. He would do odd jobs about 
the schooner — cut bait, help to cook, save cods’ tongues 
and livers, tend ship when the crew were in their dories 
trawling and make himself generally useful in other 
ways. He would have a chance to learn the ropes, to 
see how codfish are caught and dressed, and get a taste 
of fisherman’s life aboard a grand-banker. 

We started homeward in high glee at John’s good for- 
tune. When we reached the knoll above the cook-house 
we instinctively halted and turned about. Below were 
the gray buildings and wharves of Comberton, the tall 
birches on the river bank just opening into a new life, 
the stately ships on the river standing erect at the in- 
sistence of mistress tide, and men hustling to and fro as 
they got ships and goods ready for the long grand-bank 
trip. Back of all were the dark spruce woods on the 
horizon and, in the sky, the glorious red glow of a sun- 
set that betokened healthy weather ahead. 

For some moments we stood in silence before John 
Deane exclaimed as he raised his arm toward the com- 
manding scene, “ Just think, David, a month ago to-day 


42 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


I was a slave. To-day I’m free, free, and I’ll show him 
that I can amount to something, too.” 

A change was fast coming over my companion, one of 
those swift transformations which occur when a climax 
of events does in a twinkling what years of ordinary 
development may not accomplish. It was a change from 
the weakness and uncertainty of early boyhood to the 
independent, bone-and-muscle stage of young manhood. 
From that day a new John Deane began to assert him- 
self. From that time the tremendous will of his that 
drove his body and mind to acco.uplish the seemingly 
impossible began to show itself ; thenceforth it gave John 
Deane no rest, no vacation ; it proved master of the lad 
and maker of the man, inexorable amidst trials that 
would have broken other men, unceasing and inflexible in 
the countless activities of a vigorous calling, and re- 
morseless in holding John Deane to the attainment of 
his ideal. 

At the supper table that night I fldgeted a long time 
before I could announce properly the news that John 
had shipped as one of the crew of the Nimbus. I poured 
a generous helping of molasses on my plate, bisected one 
of the hot biscuits, cut checkerboard squares on its soft 
parts and began mopping up the molasses with the bis- 
cuit. When I had a mouthful of the biscuit I began to 
lead up to the subject, every once in a while looking 
over to John for corroboration of my narrative. 

« We’ve been down seeing the Nimbus this afternoon,” 
I ventured at last. The news produced no effect upon 
my parents, who continued to eat hot biscuits undis- 
turbed by my conversation. 

“ Captain Ober showed us all over the schooner — 
didn’t he, John.^ ” 

John nodded and answered with a faint “ Uh-huh.” 
Still no parental interest. I took a piece of strip-fish 
from the plate and bit into it vigorously. 


A DAY OF BARGAINS 


43 


Captain Hinds wanted John to go back — ” I began 
again. Father paused in drinking his tea, held the cup 
in his hand and interrupted me with, ‘‘ Where did you 
see Captain Hinds ” 

“ Down’t the wharf,” I answered, glad at last to have 
gained the attention of royalty. 

“What was he doing You say he wanted John to 
go back, — back where ” 

“ Back to his home,” I said. “ He said to John if 
you don’t come up here I’ll come down there and throw 
you up.” 

My father put down his cup in disgust at my indefi- 
niteness, as he probably had cause to be. 

“ Come down where? And throw him up where? ” 
he inquired, laying stress on the words. 

“ Down on the deck of the Nimbus. We was there,” 
I went on, warming up to my subject, “ and he was on 
the wharf and he shook his fist in John’s face and said 
if you don’t come up here quick I’ll come down there and 
throw you up.” 

“Well.'^” said father, waiting for the rest of the 
story. I had entered into details as much I cared, so 
replied, “ Cap’n Ober told John he could go to the 
Grand Banks with him this summer.” 

Both father and mother were surprised at the news. 
They exchanged glances, then looked toward John. 
Father inquired, “ Is that so, John.^ ” John quite mis- 
understood the meaning of father’s question, who wished 
corroboration of the fact that he had shipped for the 
banks. John understood him to refer to the sequence 
of events after Captain Hinds threatened him. He felt 
more pride in my stand against the captain than I did, 
for I preferred not to let my father know of my second 
recourse to pitchforks. So John answered very inno- 
cently, “ That isn’t exactly what happened, sir.” 

Father leaned over toward him. “Now, John,” he 


44 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


insisted, “ you tell us just what happened down there. 
What were you boys doing, anyway, and what did Cap- 
tain Hinds do? ’’ 

“ It’s like what David has told,” John replied, “ ex- 
cepting about the pitchfork — ” 

My father turned to me in disgust. “ Pitchfork ! 
David Graham, have you been using pitchforks on Cap- 
tain Hinds again? ” 

In a flash I saw two answers to my father’s question. 
I had not used forks on Captain Hinds, for I had only 
one in my hands. Nor had I used a fork on him, mostly 
because I did not get a chance. I pulled away at the 
piece of strip-fish desperately while I was framing the 
most diplomatic reply. The piece was uncomfortably 
small, since I needed a whole cured pollock in front of 
my face just then. 

Father turned again to John. ‘‘How is it, John? 
Speak up. Did David use a pitchfork? ” 

Poor John, frightened at the prospect of getting his 
defender into trouble and too honest to deny the ques- 
tion, simply nodded his head. 

“ Go out into the woodshed and wait for me there 1 ” 
father said sternly, pointing in the direction of the door. 
I knew the way well enough without any paternal arm 
acting as guide-board. I went quickly, silently and with 
grave misgivings about the red sunset predicting fair 
weather. Few grown-ups knew my father so intimately 
as I did; possibly his father had. Ours was a very in- 
timate relationship. No demons, big or little, came to 
visit me as they had during the encounters with the sea- 
captain. I was left alone with David Graham, quite 
alone with David, the schoolboy. He and I knew what 
would happen in a few minutes and where it would hap- 
pen, too. 

The minutes dragged slowly by, so slowly. I re- 
mained in the shed a long time. Within I could hear 


A DAY OF BARGAINS 


45 


the hum of voices, — father and mother but most of the 
time John talking. But I could not make out any of 
their conversation. After a time the talking ceased and 
mother opened the door. 

“ Come in, David, and finish your supper,” she said 
quietly. 

I finished my meal in silence. Once I glanced up at 
mother and noticed that she had been crying. I ate 
slowly, with all three looking on and myself not knowing 
just what would happen when I had finished my supper. 
Finally father pushed back his chair from the table and 
leaned forward toward me, resting his hands on his 
knees. 

“ David,” he began, earnestly, ‘‘ we are proud of 
you.” I glanced at him approvingly. This was un- 
looked-for news. ‘‘ John has told us what happened 
to-day and of your part in it. He has told us a great 
deal more that happened in the barn which you forgot 
to mention to me. You are a brave boy and I’m never 
going to punish you again so long as I live. But I want 
you to promise that you’ll never use a pitchfork again.” 

“ I’ll do it,” said I in a flash, only too glad to bind 
a bargain like that. Father patted me on the shoulder 
as he went out by my chair into the woodshed. Neither 
of the others said anything, except that mother put her 
apron to her face and I knew what that meant. 

After we got to bed that night John told me how 
astounded my parents were at the narrow escape from 
death I had had at the hands of Captain Hinds in the 
barn — for this part of the narrative I had omitted 
when telling father of the barn scrape. From that 
day John Deane became quite a different personage in 
our household. My parents adopted him into their 
hearts as another son and I approved the adoption. 

The sequel of the day’s events, so far as I was con- 
cerned, did not occur until the following July. It was 


46 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


a steaming hot day in haying time. There was a heap 
of work to be done as always happens in the hayfield. 
We were drawing in hay and I had the boy’s job of 
raking scatterings after the cart, a most uninspiring 
occupation for man or boy. Father, who always did 
have a knack of discovering thunder storms hours be- 
fore they would appear above the western woods, scented 
a big one in the offing. 

“ Here, David,” he called, “ there’s a big one com- 
ing. Stick your rake in the hind end of the cart and 
climb up and stow hay on the load. Henry,” he called 
to the hired man on the load, “ you come down and help 
me load hay on the rack ; the scatterings can wait.” 

In the face of two possible storms I leaned carelessly 
on my rake handle and replied, “Father, last May I 
promised you I’d never use a pitchfork again. I’m 
going to keep my promise and you’ve got to keep yours.” 

Then I resumed my raking with more zest for scat- 
terings than I had ever before thought possible. 


CHAPTER VI 


KIDNAPED 

I T was a happy task that confronted us boys to get 
John properly equipped for his first Grand Bank 
trip. There was nothing that he could furnish 
himself but his present need was hardly to be consid- 
ered with the members of his new household supplying 
his wants most willingly. When we came in one after- 
noon we were not a little surprised that mother had the 
dining table piled high with a supply of necessary cloth- 
ing, — a pair of blankets, two old comforters, several 
pairs of home-spun woolen socks, a supply of mittens, 
a pair of wristers, flannel shirts and one of father’s old 
overcoats. Shortly after, father came in and added to 
the pile a pair of rubber boots, two sets of oil-skins, 
a can of oil and a sou’wester, — the fighting helmet of 
the grand-banker. 

My contribution to John’s outfit was a ditty-box, an 
indispensable part of a sailor’s equipment. It was a 
box a foot long and half as high, fitted with a tiny lock 
and key, and prized beyond all other of my possessions. 
For half a dozen years it had done service in my room 
holding my dearest treasures, always securely locked 
with the key hidden in a secret place where father and 
mother would be unable to find it. 

Why, David,” my mother exclaimed, laughing to 
see me bring in the prized box like an offering at a 
sacrifice, you’re not going to give away your precious 
box, are you ? How will you keep your treasures locked 
up now? ” 


47 


48 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


I replied that the box was only loaned to John, that 
on board ship he would need something in which to lock 
up his valuables and I was willing to let him take the box 
along for that purpose. 

John’s valuables! Little did I realize then that 
John’s shirt and trousers were the alpha and omega of 
his valuables, neither of which could be locked up in a 
box without distressing the owner. Unknown to 
mother, however, I had placed some of my knick-knacks 
in the box which made the inside look less lonesome than 
it did after I had removed my treasures and concealed 
them under the attic eaves. 

On another day we set forth for the wharf with bed- 
ding, clothing and other equipment piled high on the 
wheel-barrow. John led the way, pushing the barrow’s 
load before him, happy and serene. I closed up the 
rear with only a pair of legs showing beneath the en- 
shrouding straw-bed on my back which was to furnish 
comfort in John’s berth aboard the Nimbus. Upon 
our arrival at the schooner the crew gave us a warm 
greeting, for they were only too glad to have John 
among their number. 

After we had made up John’s berth it presented an 
attractive appearance. It was well laid with bulging 
straw-tick, comforters and blankets. One comforter, 
bearing the hall-marks of an early New England type 
of needlework, served as a coverlet. At the head was 
a pillow filled with ducks’ feathers and covered, thanks 
to mother’s thoughtfulness, with a pink-and-white slip. 
A sailor’s bag rested at the foot of the berth, rotund 
with its inner store of warm clothing. The walls and 
ceiling of the retreat were painted white. A narrow 
shelf extended the length of the back wall on which we 
placed the ditty-box, that sanctum sanctorum of seamen 
which, in this instance, contained a small mirror and 
comb, a cake of perfumed soap, a knife and a Jew’s harp. 


KIDNAPED 


49 


all contributed from my treasured store. Standing 
alongside these nautical Penates and no less esteemed 
by John Deane was a small collection of books that we 
had gotten together to help pass away time when the 
storms of the banks should prevent work in the dories. 

Thursday was the date set for the sailing of the 
Nimbus, This day had been decided upon partly to 
avoid sailing on Friday, which is regarded by fisher- 
men as an omen of bad luck, and also to go in company 
with the Harvest Home, a Comberton grand-banker 
owned by Seth Hinds due to sail on that day. 

On the eve of the sailing of the Nimbus father did 
not go up to the store as was his custom. We all sat 
about the dining-room table, father reading from the 
paper, mother knitting stockings and we boys indus- 
triously learning how to box the compass. One thought 
was uppermost in our minds, that on the morrow John 
Deane would sail for the Grand Bank of Newfoundland 
to be gone three or four months. Although I regretted 
losing his company I was happy that he was free from 
Hinds and his woodpile, free to fight his own battles, 
free to make his way in the world and free to become 
a man six years before his majority. Little did we 
realize that evening what price he would have to pay 
for the larger freedom or how grandly he would meet 
the dangers and diflSculties that awaited him. 

We were interrupted in our occupations by the sound 
of footsteps on the walk outside. The door opened and 
a stranger stood on the threshold. Father hardly had 
time to say “ Come in ” before the stranger inquired 
in a tone more brusque than polite, “ Does John Deane 
live here ? ” 

John rose from his chair at mention of his name. 
The man continued without further introduction, “ The 
cap’n wants you down to the wharf right off ; he is 
going to sail on this tide. The schooner is out in 


50 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


the channel now waiting for you and two other fel- 
lows.” 

The announcement surprised us so completely that 
none could say a word for a minute or so. Twelve 
hours’ difference in the sailing schedule of the Nimbus 
would not affect any of us greatly, especially as most 
of it would be spent in slumber; it was the suddenness 
of the change of plans that caused our surprise. Fa- 
ther was the first to recover his wits. 

“Why, I thought he wasn’t to sail until the morn- 
ing. I was talking with Captain Ober this noon and 
he said nothing about sailing to-night. I don’t see how 
he can anyway, I never heard tell of sailing out of the 
river at night.” 

For answer the stranger shrugged his shoulders as 
if to throw off responsibility for the change of plans. 
There was nothing to do but accept the case as it stood. 
John already had taken his coat off the back of his 
chair and was putting it on. He had nothing to carry, 
since all his goods were aboard the schooner. He stood 
in silence before us, fumbling with the buttons on his 
coat. He wanted to say something to father and mother 
about their kindness to him but a big lump of some- 
thing had lodged in his throat which prevented his 
speaking. 

Father came to his rescue quickly. Men have such 
an easy way of saying good-by, an offhand “ so long ” 
as if they had no real interest in the matter. “ Well, 
good luck to you, John. We hope you’ll return the 
high-liner of the crew,” and father shook hands with 
him heartily as he spoke. Mother was not so success- 
ful in imparting her good wishes ; between the three of 
us, however, we instinctively got John headed out of 
the house. I took up my cap from the hall rack and 
followed the two into the night. 

The stranger, noticing that I was about to follow. 


KIDNAPED 


51 


said rather petulantly, “ You don’t need to come along. 
I can get the boy to the schooner all right. Good 
night.” I persisted, however, and father called after 
me, Where are you going, David ” 

Down to the shore with John,” I answered. 

“ Don’t go aboard the schooner to-night. Come back 
as soon as John gets aboard. Be sure you don’t run 
away with him.” 

‘‘Why, Hiram, what do you mean?” mother ex- 
claimed, not quite sure whether father was serious or 
otherwise. 

“ I mean that I don’t want him to skedaddle with 
John. No telling what he won’t do once he gets a no- 
tion into his head.” 

“ I’ll come right back,” I called to them as we swung 
out into the road. But I did not return that night. 

We hurried along in the darkness of the night. The 
moon had not risen enough to make our walking in the 
deep ruts of the road any too safe. As we came into the 
head of the field above the wharf where our destination 
was the stranger turned to me and said, “ Now, sonny, 
you can run back. I can get John the rest of the way 
without your help. We’ll go right aboard the schooner 
so there’s little use in your going farther.” 

No boy likes to be called “ sonny.” I was now de- 
termined to go as far as I could and replied, “ I’m 
going to the wharf and see him off.” I could not 
understand why the man was anxious to be rid of me. 
The man stopped, hoping that I would also. But John 
and I kept right on toward the wharf. At this the 
stranger hurried on ahead of us. 

When we reached the wharf we could barely make out 
the outline of a schooner in the channel. The sound 
of voices came across the water and we could hear the 
crew at work hoisting the sails. Our guide had dis- 
appeared. We heard him shortly at the end of the 


52 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


wharf where he had got aboard a dorj which he was 
holding to the wharf. 

“ Halloo, on board the schooner,” he called out. 
‘‘ Halloo!” 

Promptly out of the river mist came a reply, “ Halloo, 
on the shore. Everything all right? ” 

“ All right. Coming aboard ! ” the stranger an- 
swered from below the wharf. 

Then he turned to John Deane. “ Hustle into the 
dory. Take hold of the cleats on the side of the wharf. 
There 1 Sit down in the bow and I’ll row.” 

In a twinkling almost, altogether too quickly to suit 
me, John climbed down into the dory and took a posi- 
tion facing me. We had not shaken hands or said 
anything about his going away, which was quite natural 
for boys of our age. However, when the dory pulled 
away from the wharf I said, “ Good-by, John.” 
“ Good-by, Dave,” he called back, and then the river 
mist began to gather him and the strange man and 
the dory into its folds. The oars thumped against the 
wooden tholepins. Nothing else came from out the 
darkness. John Deane had gone out of my life, en- 
tered into a life of mystery and toil and hardship that 
was now at its turning point. My boyhood friend dis- 
appeared forever in the river mist; when I again knew 
him he was on the highway to manhood. 

The strokes of the oars became shorter and quicker 
as the dory approached the schooner, then came the 
rattle of the oars as they were shipped and fell upon 
the thwarts. There were indistinct sounds of voices, 
too, that came to me but not loud enough for me to 
understand what was being said. While I stood strain- 
ing eyes and ears toward the phantom shape in the 
channel I thought I heard my own name called, “ Dave ! 
Dave I ” I listened in vain for a further call, then 
doubted my own ears. Probably I was too eager to 


KIDNAPED 


53 


hear something and my imagination had supplied the 
call in my mind. I did venture a reply, though, think- 
ing it could do no harm. Imitating the example of the 
seaman I shouted into the darkness, “ On board the 
schooner! All right, John.^ ” No answer came to the 
call although I felt certain from the way I could hear 
voices that my shouting must have been heard aboard 
the schooner. 

Presently there came the sound of oars and the out- 
line of a dory appeared on the river from the direction 
of the schooner. The man at the oars skillfully turned 
the boat against the wharf, seized the cleat and climbed 
on the wharf with the boat’s painter in his hand. He 
threw a couple of half-hitches with the rope about a 
piling before he turned up the wharf and hurried past 
me. I took a look at him, he peered down into my 
face as he passed. Captain Hinds and I were face to 
face ! 

“Oh, it’s you, is it.^^ What ye doin’ here this time 
of night ? ” he inquired sneeringly. 

“ I came down to catch some eels for breakfast,” I 
retorted, surprised at my own readiness in replying. 
It puzzled me to know what Seth Hinds was doing 
aboard the Nimbus, for there was little love lost be- 
tween him and Captain Ober since the latter had shipped 
John Deane in his crew. 

“ Eels ? ” he answered, puzzled at my strange reply. 

“ Yes, eels. Your wharf’s a great place for slippery 
things,” and I turned away and walked across to the 
other side of the wharf. What was he doing down 
here, too, at this time of night.? That puzzled me. 

He watched me closely for a while, then walked up 
the wharf. He was not fifty yards away before I rushed 
to the painter, threw it off the piling and climbed down 
into the dory. I did not know what I was going to do 
except that I wanted to learn more of the mysterious 


54 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


doings out in the channel before I returned home. I 
pushed the dory away from the wharf and seated myself 
at the oars. At this Captain Hinds, who had been 
watching my movements, rushed down to the end of the 
wharf and shouted angrily at me, “ Bring that boat 
back. What are you doing anyway.^ I can have you 
arrested for taking my boat.” 

I kept on pulling at the oars, putting water between 
us at every stroke. 

“ Bring that boat back, I say ! This minute,” he 
roared. But the dory sped on toward the schooner. 

“ On board the schooner ! Hey ! On board the 
schooner ! Hello ! Watch out for the dory. Keep 
that fellow off ! Don’t let him get aboard ! ” 

I was already half-way to the schooner. The crew 
were working at the windlass in getting the anchor off 
the bottom ; there was a short chain out and the schooner 
would be adrift shortly. I pulled my best at the oars 
and before I was aware bumped bows on into the schoon- 
er’s side. Over I went into the bottom of the boat. 
Before I could recover my feet one of the oars slipped 
out of the tholepin and fell into the water. It took me 
some time to recover the lost oar. When I got the dory 
back to the schooner’s side again a gruff voice called 
from the rail, “ What do you want.? Keep off! We’re 
getting under way and you are likely to get hurt.” 

“ I want to speak to John Deane,” I answered, hold- 
ing the boat against the schooner. 

“Who’s he.? No such person in the crew.” 

“ Yes, there is ; he just came aboard from the wharf, 
not ten minutes ago,” I insisted, determined to find out 
what had become of my companion. 

“ I tell you they ain’t,” the other replied ; “ keep off, 
or I’ll throw a belaying-pin at you.” 

I was not so easily put off, so I set up a lusty shout, 
“ John 1 John Deane 1 ” 


KIDNAPED 


55 


The man stepped back to the fife-rail for a moment. 
Then he let fly a missile which struck me on the left side 
and arm, causing me to gasp with pain for a moment. 
I picked the belaying-pin from the bottom of the boat 
where it had fallen and drove it back at the man who 
had thrown it at me. My shot took effect, striking my 
assailant in the lower part of his face. 

“ You throw another thing at me,” I shouted in 
my rage, “ and I’ll come aboard your old boat and lick 
you so’t you can’t stand. I don’t believe you are the 
Nimbus, anyway. I want to know what you have done 
with John Deane.” 

I pulled the dory to the bow of the schooner close 
up against the chain which the crew were taking in. I 
looked in vain for the name Nimbus on the bow; in- 
stead I made out enough of the white letters to con- 
vince me that it was the schooner Harvest Home! John 
Deane was somewhere aboard Seth Hinds’ schooner, 
kidnaped, perhaps bound and gagged, for no response 
came from my shouting. 

Just as I made the discovery of the real name of the 
schooner the anchor-stock came out of the water directly 
under the dory. It tipped the boat over nearly to up- 
setting and I was thrown off my feet into the bottom of 
the boat. A puff of wind caught in the foresails, the 
schooner’s bow turned off into the current and my 
chances either of punishing the man who threw the belay- 
ing-pin or of rescuing John Deane were lost forever. 

I pulled back to the wharf quickly, intent only upon 
reaching my father and informing him of the strange 
state of affairs. In some fashion I fastened the boat’s 
painter to the piling, then darted up the wharf at full 
speed thinking of no danger nor suspecting that a dark 
object was lying in wait for me. At the top of the bank 
I stopped a moment to look back upon the river. I 
could easily make out the schooner’s white sails, for the 


56 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


moon’s rays were now reaching down into the flood. 
But the river was still misty ; it seemed to me they were 
running a great risk to attempt to go out of the river 
on such a night. 

Suddenly from out the darkness a hand was clapped 
over my mouth and I was dragged backward to the 
ground. Not without a struggle. I managed to get 
one of the fingers of the hand into my mouth. I bit it 
viciously, ground it between my teeth until blows from 
the other hand of my assailant drove me into insensi- 
bility. 


CHAPTER VII 


WHEN A GRAND-BANKER RETURNS 

W HEN a grand-banker sets sail for a four- 
month voyage you may as well await her 
return with patience. That was a long sum- 
mer to Comberton people. Everybody had an interest 
in the banking fleet. Some owned stock in the schoon- 
ers ; others had relatives among the crews ; a few like 
myself had personal interest in an individual, although 
in the case of John Deane the interest in his fate was 
shared by all alike. Even Seth Hinds at times must 
have wondered how the lad was faring aboard his 
schooner. During the long months that Comberton 
awaited news from the Grand Bank his name was on 
every tongue. Nobody had heard a word of him, 
whether he was dead or alive, since the night the river 
mist had swallowed him from my sight. June gave way 
to the dog-days of July and still Comberton received 
no news from the fleet. August in turn held place on 
the calendar but it was not until the month was well into 
the twenties that word came from out the fogs of the 
Newfoundland banks. 

In the meantime, I had recovered from the resentment 
and injuries that I had suffered the night I had visited 
the wharf to speed my friend on his way. Early the 
following morning my father had found me in a deep 
gully near the wharf, with my hands and feet firmly 
bound with cod-line and my mouth gagged by means 
of a piece of herring-stick. We had no doubt who my 
assailant was, for circumstantial evidence pointed 


58 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


straight toward Seth Hinds. It was noticed, too, that 
one finger of his left hand was bandaged for several 
days. The finger was injured, so he claimed, by get- 
ting it jammed in a door; yet I was as sure as a mortal 
could be that the hinges of that “ door ” were my own 
jaws. The captain disclaimed any knowledge of the 
whereabouts of John Deane and declared that he was 
not responsible for what Decatur Beers did once the 
captain of the Harvest Home was aboard the schooner 
which he commanded. So we had to wait for time to 
clear up the mystery of the boy’s disappearance. 

One evening in late August we were gathered about 
the steps of the store as was the custom among Comber- 
ton men and boys during the summer months. The 
men were discussing the probable arrival of the first 
schooner and we boys were eagerly drinking in every 
bit of wisdom and guesswork that fell from their lips; 
always the conversation led up to the case of John 
Deane, who was a life-sized hero to Comberton boys 
that season. 

It was a time when grand-bankers like to reach home, 
while the vegetables are still fresh in the garden and 
there are plenty of berries to be found in the back 
pasture lots. The fishermen know what is going on 
at home during the long months at sea, how the pass- 
ing weeks mark the end of the planting, the time for 
the first new potatoes, the oncoming of the haying sea- 
son and the harvesting of the grain crops. They long 
for fresh vegetables and meats, for a sight of Mt. Desert 
hills, and the joy of seeing their women and children 
about their home tables. These are the things that 
hold the grand-banker steady to his job while he toils 
amid the fogs of the Newfoundland banks. 

Suddenly from the direction of the mouth of the 
river came the boom of a cannon. The spell was 
broken! The fleet was returning! A signal gun had 


WHEN A GRAND-BANKER RETURNS 59 


been fired to give warning of the good news. We lis- 
tened for other shots to make sure our ears had not 
deceived us. Soon a second boom sounded through the 
stillness of the night. Some grand-banker was in the 
bay awaiting daylight and a favorable tide to reach the 
wharves of Comberton. Men sprang to their feet and 
shouted and waved their hats in the air. I ran home at 
full speed and burst in upon my mother with the wel- 
come news that perhaps John Deane would be aboard 
the returning vessel. 

That was a sleepless night for me. No Fourth-of- 
July ever found me astir earlier than did the following 
day. I made a mere pretense at eating breakfast, then 
started for the shore. People were there on the wharf 
ahead of me, anxious, wondering, speculating on what 
vessel it was and the news she would bring. Did they 
have news of John Deane That was the one question 
that held interest for me. Possibly he was on this very 
schooner that was now entering the river. How I did 
hope she was the Harvest Home, 

The tide came in so slowly, the ship would never 
come. Even as we looked, however, the topmasts of 
the returning schooner appeared above the trees at the 
bend of the river. What schooner Could any one 
make her out.?^ Before her hull was visible the men on 
the wharf had made out what schooner it was. ‘‘ It’s 
the Harvest Home'^ declared one of the older fishermen. 
“ Sure, it’s the Harvest Home.'" These men know 
ships as a scientist knows his rocks and flowers. It 
ought to be the Harvest Home because Decatur Beers 
was her captain ; few Comberton commanders year in 
and year out secured a fare of fish ahead of him. 

The schooner rounded the point of land into full 
view. She was on the port tack, headed straight for 
the Comberton shore. The crew were there, we could 
see them eagerly waving their arms toward the happy 


60 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


crowd on the wharf. Pretty well down by the scuppers 
the schooner was, too, a good sign of a successful sea- 
son. Diagonally across the channel the Harvest Home 
charged bows on toward the rocks on the shore. Just 
at the right moment we heard the skipper’s ‘‘ Hard-a- 
lee ! ” ring out. The wheel spun around, the head-sails 
flapped loosely as the vessel’s bow came into the wind. 
Slowly she came about on the starboard tack, then hesi- 
tated a moment before her sails filled and the schooner 
stood across the channel toward the opposite shore. 
She was a little nearer now and we could see the crew 
more plainly. Every eye was strained toward the 
schooner, toward the group of men on deck, when sud- 
denly we saw something stir at the main-rigging, saw 
the breeze lift up and stretch across the whiteness of the 
mainsail the American flag at half-mast ! 

“ My God, do you see that ! ” a man cried out near 
me. 

“ Somebody’s lost ! ” another whispered hoarsely. 

Yes, and the flag thrown to the breeze to prepare 
the home folks against the shock. Who could it be.^ 
The schooner sailed farther and farther away. We 
could not distinguish any one of the crew. Women 
were weeping silently. Only whisperings and low moans 
could be heard on the wharf when the Harvest Home 
tacked about again and headed for the Comberton 
wharves. 

“ There’s ’Cate Beers, anyway,” said somebody. 
“See! standing by the house.” Yes, and Lew Mills 
up forward, and Ranny McDonald — one by one the 
men on the wharf tallied off the returning crew, tallied 
them off* and wrote their names on paper. Sixteen all 
told, none of the regular crew of the Harvest Home 
missing. Men looked at the names and passed the paper 
from hand to hand. Presently it was whispered through 


WHEN A GRAND-BANKER RETURNS 61 


the crowd, “ John Deane ! Sh-h ! The Grahams are 
here on the wharf.” 

My heart was breaking. Not a word was spoken as 
the schooner drew near the wharf. Ropes were flung 
from the deck and secured to the pilings. Not a soul 
made an inquiry for John Deane. Was nobody inter- 
ested.^ How I misunderstood the men. The crew were 
waiting for some one on the wharf to inquire, the home 
folks were expecting the crew to volunteer news of the 
boy’s fate. I could stand it no longer. Pushing my 
way to the front of the wharf I called out, ‘‘ Can any 
of you tell me about John Deane.?* ” 

A silence like that at a funeral fell upon the crew 
and shore people alike. Nobody spoke, the people 
waited breathless for answer. Then Lew Mills, the 
cook, stepped forward from his place near the fore- 
castle and said with a voice that shook with emotion, 
“John Deane! Let nobody speak his name while we 
stand on this cursed slave-ship. When I am ashore 
I’ll tell you more about John Deane than you want to 
hear.” 


CHAPTER VIII 


BREAKING A BOY 

H ad the cook of the Harvest Home struck me a 
blow in the face it could not have hurt more 
than his reply to my inquiry about J ohn 
Deane’s fate. For half an hour I stood watch over the 
companionway of the forecastle while the cook was 
below packing his sailor’s bag preparatory to leaving 
the decks of the Harvest Home forever. Then I went 
with the crowd that followed him to the village store. 

Lew Mills, the cook, rested his sailor’s bag against 
the side of the building, pulled a few whiffs at his pipe, 
and told Comberton his story of John Deane. As he 
proceeded in his narrative the crowd pressed closer to 
the speaker but at no time did they interrupt him 
throughout his talk. 

“You want to know about John Deane? Well, you 
ought to know about Seth Hinds and ’Cate Beers, too: 
Beers and the man that owns him, Seth Hinds, are a 
precious pair of dogs if dogs ever get so low as those 
scoundrels. The night we sailed out of the river they 
pulled John Deane out of the dory onto the deck of 
the Harvest Home by tricking him. Kidnaped him! 
That’s what it was. When the boy resisted and called 
out to somebody on the shore they knocked him sense- 
less to the deck and dragged him to the forecastle for 
me to take care of. Did I? What man wouldn’t? 
Not to help out their dirty work but for the boy’s sake. 
God knows where John Deane is this minute.” 

The speaker paused a moment as if lost in the re- 
62 


BREAKING A BOY 


63 


flection of his thoughts, looking out over the heads of 
the listening crowd and pulling away at his pipe. After 
a while he resumed his narrative. 

“ They dragged him to the forecastle and dumped 
him down the gangway as if he was a bag of coal. Then 
that hellyun Hinds said to his sea-pirate, ‘ Break him, 
curse him! Break him so’t he’ll know his place when 
he sees land again 1 ’ That’s what they’ve been doing 
to him while you folks have been wondering where the 
boy has been all summer. I found the boy lying in a 
heap at the foot of the steps and got him into my 
berth. I washed off* the blood from his face and tied up 
a gash that had been cut when he struck against the 
forehatch after they knocked him down. By the time 
we had got out of the river into the bay the boy had 
come to and was telling me something about what had 
happened to him. Just about that time ’Cate Beers 
came down the companionway. When he saw the boy 
lying in the berth with a cloth about his head he was 
foaming mad. 

“ ‘ Come out of there and get on deck to your watch 1 ’ 
he bawled out. 

“ The boy tried to rise up but was so weak from 
his sickness and being knocked down that he fell back 
in the berth. Quick as a flash Beers leaped to the 
berth and yanked the boy out onto the floor. Then 
the brute kicked the fellow while he lay there too sick 
to get to his feet. Oh, he was breaking him all right, 
trust Decatur Beers for that. 

“ Some of the crew were in the forecastle. They are 
used to seeing able bodied seamen get a bruising but to 
see a sick boy being kicked while he was down went 
against their stomachs. They didn’t stand for that, 
much as they feared ’Cate Beers. Right off* three or 
four of them said they’d stand the boy’s watch for him, 
seeing as the boy wasn’t in any condition to go on deck. 


64 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


Scissors to grind! Beers was madder than ever. He 
told the men to go to hell and ordered them on deck 
about their business. Then he grabbed the boy by the 
collar and yanked him to his feet. 

“ ‘ Now get on deck lively and take that dish-rag off 
your head,’ he said. He took hold of the bandage and 
began to rip it off the boy’s head without any feeling 
for the pain he was causing. 

“ My blood was fairly boiling now. I stepped up 
to Beers and said, ‘ Cap’n Beers, don’t you lay hands 
on that boy again. You’re boss on deck but, by mighty, 
so long’s I’m cook on this craft I’m boss of the fore- 
castle. You nor no other man don’t lay a finger on 
him while he’s down here until my case is settled first.’ 
That settled matters for that night. Beers knows a 
cook has rights in his own forecastle. 

“ But don’t think he ever let up a minute on the 
boy after that night. No need to tell everything he 
done. The boy was put through the ropes day after 
day; every night, too, after we got on the banks the 
boy stood his own night watch and somebody else’s. 
Nothing that he ever did was right, either. He had to 
shovel salt in the main-hold, help kench down the codfish, 
cut out cod’s tongues and sounds and livers, bait trawls, 
fix gangings, dress fish, clean up the gurry-tubs and 
keep the schooner washed off what time the seas didn’t 
do the job for him. He worked from daylight till 
dark. No, I’m wrong. He didn’t work, he slaved un- 
der a cursing, heartless slave-driver who was trying to 
break him. When the day’s work was done he had to 
sit humped up in the forecuddy baiting trawls till nine 
o’clock. 

“ Forty days he slaved like that I Enough to break 
any one’s spirit and wear out a man’s body. But De- 
catur Beers didn’t so much as make a dent in either, 
except when he maltreated the boy’s flesh. The boy is 


BREAKING A BOY 


65 


iron and steel. You can’t break him and I guess the 
mill that Seth Hinds had been grinding him in helped 
the boy out when Beers got hold of him. At first we 
pitied him but when we saw his spirit and his power 
to work we just had to admire him. It was a battle 
between him and ’Cate Beers with all the advantage on 
the side of the cap’n; but it must have got on the 
nerves of Beers week after week to see that the only 
way he ever would break the boy would be to kill him. 

“ The boy didn’t have half a show either, for he had 
come aboard the schooner without any clothing and out- 
fit at all except what he wore on his back. Beers sent 
him into the forward berth, way up in the ‘ peak ’ where 
you roll and pitch worse than anywhere aboard the 
vessel. When he would turn in at night he’d crawl in 
there and roll from starboard to port on the boards 
all night, if a gale was on. The time came when he 
showed that he was a real man and we turned to and 
fitted up his berth with a strawbed and some quilts be- 
sides giving the boy some oilclothes. Grateful.? The 
only time tears came into his eyes for the summer was 
the night he came in from his watch and found his 
berth fixed up fit for a human fisherman. Three weeks 
he’d been knocked down into the lee scuppers, kicked, 
cursed and abused. He took his medicine like an old 
salt though he didn’t deserve any of it. When we 
watched him crawl away into the ‘ peak ’ that night 
and lie down and shake with sobbing because he was so 
grateful — weU, we were paid a-plenty for what we had 
done.” 

While the cook was narrating John Deane’s expe- 
riences at sea the people, while listening attentively and 
deeply interested in the account, were running ahead 
of the story in their minds and wondering what was the 
actual fate of the lad. As Lew Mills would stop from 
time to time the people would press closer to him ; but 


66 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


the moments were too precious for any to risk a ques- 
tion. The crowd awaited the outcome of the story as 
if dumb with the solemnity of the occasion. 

“ The crew took to John Deane from the first,” re- 
sumed Mills after a pause. “ They didn’t see much that 
took place board ship during the day for they were 
off in their dories tending trawls; but I did and the 
crew got enough second hand to sicken them of De- 
catur Beers. A few days after we got to the banks 
something happened that showed us what stuff was in 
John Deane. The men had come in from the trawls 
all petered out; you see they hadn’t got broken in to 
their work yet and that day a heavy sea was running 
that made it hard to underrun the trawls. When the 
dories came along side the men pitched the fish aboard 
the schooner and began dressing down without saying 
much to any one ; they just wanted to be let alone, that 
was all. John Deane was pitching codfish into a dress- 
ing keeler where Ranny McDonald was splitting. In 
some way he knocked the keeler over and spilt the fish 
on the deck. He had things back in place in a minute 
or two ; but Ranny is naturally snappish and on this 
day he was all out of sorts. Before he went to dressing 
fish again he took a ten-pound cod by the head and hit 
the boy ker-slap right across the face with the fish. 

“ It was a dirty trick to do. John Deane knew his 
rights as well as anybody aboard ship. It was one 
thing to put up with the skipper’s abuse — it would be 
mutiny if he resisted — but quite a different matter 
when one of the crew began to abuse him. He let smash 
right off at Ranny’s head with the fork handle. The 
blow staggered the fellow for a moment. 

“‘Put up your fork, you Yankee pig-sticker, and 
fight man fashion,’ Ranny said. 

“ It didn’t seem quite fair to the rest of us, Ranny 
picking the quarrel and being older and heavier than 


BREAKING A BOY 


67 


the boy ; but it’s all in the life at sea. The two sparred 
for a minute before they clinched. Then in about two 
jiffs we got our eyes opened and Ranny got his closed. 
John Deane got hold of him and quick as lightning 
lifted him clean off the deck, right over his own head 
and threw him over the dressing keeler to the deck. 
Ranny struck awful hard and the blood spurted from his 
mouth when he fell. For the next two days the boy 
took his place in the dory. The crew never saw a 
thing done like that before nor since; after that they 
took good care not to let John Deane get his hooks on 
them, boy though he was. 

“ Well, about a week afterwards, we were getting 
under way one day to change fishing berths. The wind 
was piping fresh and the old tub was bowling along 
at a good jog, as you know she can. All of a sudden 
a couple of dressing-keelers on top of some tubs went 
overboard. The man at the wheel put the wheel hard 
up and ‘ jibed over ’ instead of letting the schooner 
wear ’round. Bang came the mainboom across decks 
and hit Ranny in the side of the head hard enough to 
break it open if it hadn’t been solid bone, besides knock- 
ing him overboard. There was a pretty mess — man 
knocked overboard senseless, with rubber boots and oil- 
clothes on ; it looked as if it was all up for Ranny. 
Some of the crew ran for a boat hook, others rushed to 
put a dory overboard but the one grand thing to see 
was John Deane jump across the deck; he stood for a 
moment on the taffrail and then took a header into the 
Atlantic ocean just as natural as if he was jumping 
off a piling into the Latona river. You see he didn’t 
have rubber boots and oil clothes in those days, — shoes, 
shirt and pants, only, and that is what saved Ranny 
McDonald from going straight down into Davy Jones’ 
locker on a through ticket. The boy overtook him at 
the first try and kept his head above water pretty 


68 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


much until we got the two of them into a dory. John 
Deane was a man with us after that day. 

“ Ranny was laid up for another two days. When 
he got about deck again he was more of a man than 
he’d ever been before; being knocked senseless seemed 
to do him good. The first thing he did was to give John 
his hand. 

“ ‘ Boy,’ he said, ‘ there’s more man in you at fifteen 
than there’ll ever be in Ranny McDonald. Count me 
on your side after this, if I’m worth counting.’ 

“ Then he sat down on the brake and pulled off his 
rubber boots and gave them to the boy, probably the 
first pair he’d ever had on. For the rest of the sum- 
mer Ranny wore his old leather cow-hides. That was 
the night we rigged up John’s berth for him, the night, 
you remember, when the boy crawled under his quilts 
a-sobbing like a child at our kindness, though every 
man in the forecastle knew he was more of a man than 
any grown-up in the crew. 

“ Along the fore part of June the Nimbus hailed us 
and Captain Ober came aboard. He and Beers went 
into the cabin and had it out there. I guess the Old 
Man had the better of the argument for he showed that 
it would be piracy to come aboard another man’s 
schooner and take off one of his crew. Any rate Cap- 
tain Ober left without John Deane. But the two had 
a talk together up by the windlass ; everybody had sus- 
picions they were planning how John could desert the 
Harvest Home on some dark night.” 

At this point the cook’s pipe went out and he paused 
to thump it on the back of his thumb before refilling it. 
The crowd followed his every movement patiently. 
With the pipe going afresh the cook concluded his 
story. 

“ Come now to the last act. You’d have thought 
Captain Beers would have taken warning from some 


BREAKING A BOY 


69 


things he’d seen happen, but he didn’t. He had been 
ordered to ‘ break ’ the boj and you know he’s a man 
who obeys orders first and asks questions after. Things 
got to going worse after Captain Ober was aboard. 
The boy was watched pretty close and Beers always 
had a man with him in his night watches. 

‘‘ One afternoon when the boats were all out fishing 
and I was alone in the forecastle getting things ready 
for supper I heard John Deane call from the compan- 
ionway. ‘ Cook, come up here,’ he said. I went on 
deck and followed him to the main-hatchway, which was 
off. He pointed down into the hold where ’Cate Beers 
lay still and white as death. ‘ Looks as if he fell into 
the hold,’ the boy said, quietly. 

“We had a hard time getting him on deck, he was 
heavy and clumsy to handle being so limpy. After 
we’d tied a rope about his waist we hitched on the top- 
ping-lift and hoisted him out of the hold like he was a 
barrel of bait. When we got him into his berth there 
was little life in him, I can tell you, and for the next 
three days a-running we scarcely knew whether he was 
in the land of the quick or dead. Nor cared much, 
either. How had it happened.^ Nobody knew and 
none of the crew inquired. John Deane kept his mouth 
shut. On the day of the accident I took a look about 
the hold where the boy had been working and where 
we found the captain lying. If you ask me, why I 
have suspicions that the old man abused the boy to the 
limit and John Deane probably turned and Ranny- 
McDonalded him. But, mind you, they are just sus- 
picions. ’Cate Beers never mentioned the affair to any- 
body. 

“ When the captain showed signs of improving John 
said to me one afternoon, ‘ It’s going to be an easy 
sea and thick-of-fog to-night, cook; my watch is be- 
tween twelve and two.’ 


70 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


“ I didn’t need a lantern to see some things, so I said, 
‘ I wish you’d see that the pail of water and bucket of 
grub under the companionway stairs gets overboard to- 
night, John.’ 

“ Come twelve o’clock and the watch called him. He 
put on his rubber boots and oils, then went on deck. I 
could hear him walking back and forth, back and forth, 
for a long time. Then I heard him working quietly 
near the dories. Just before his watch was up at two 
he came back into the forecastle and tiptoed over to 
my berth. Our hands met for a moment and he was 
gone. He went aft to the cabin where I heard him go 
below to call the watch. I was on the lookout in the 
companionway. He walked back to the mainrigging, 
stepped over the rail of the schooner — and that is the 
last any of us has seen of John Deane. 

“ When the crew got up next morning a dory was 
gone and the boy was missing. Nobody aboard ship 
knows until this day how he went or when he went or 
that I missed a pail of water and a bucket of grub from 
under the companionway stairs. Nobody knows where 
he is to-day. Comberton has raised some good men but 
she never had but one John Deane.” 

Lew Mills concluded his narrative as abruptly as 
he had begun. At the end the people broke up into 
small groups talking over the success of the bank fleet 
for the summer and speculating among themselves what 
had become of John Deane after he disappeared from 
the deck of the Harvest Home into the fogs of the Grand 
Bank of Newfoundland. Nor did they cease from 
speculating until ten days later when the Nimbus re- 
turned from her maiden voyage with John Deane, 
rugged, brown and happy, standing alongside Captain 
Ober at his wheel. 


CHAPTER IX 


PLANNING LARGE 

I T was a new John Deane who stepped ashore from the 
schooner Nimbus when she returned to the wharves 
of Comberton from her first deep-sea voyage. In- 
stead of the boy whom we remembered recovering from 
a long sickness we found as fine a specimen of sturdy 
adolescent as one could wish to see. He was my hero 
and how proud I was of him ! He was taller and 
stronger than when he went away, well set up and erect, 
his hands and face brown as an Italian’s, his blue eyes 
clear as stars in a winter night. One could see that he 
was crossing the threshold from indecisive youth to vig- 
orous young manhood, already filled with an indepen- 
dence of spirit that was partly inherent and in part de- 
veloped by his constant battle against unusual odds. 
His eyes were kindling with the vision of a great victory, 
the beginnings of which were even now coming to pass 
in his life. 

During the days and months following his return, 
Comberton had no reason to be disappointed in the 
big things they were learning to expect from John 
Deane. The mystery of his escape from the fogs of 
Newfoundland banks after exposure in an open dory 
for three days and nights was partially cleared up by 
Captain Ober and his crew; it was little that even his 
most intimate friends could glean from the boy him- 
self. Out of the fog and toil and hardships of the sum- 
mer there came enough testimony for men to marvel 
that a youth of his age could endure all without flinch- 


7a SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


ing. More than the endurance was the eager, vigorous 
response that he made whenever opportunity gave his 
merits, both physical and moral, a chance to display 
themselves. His ability to do hard work, his giant 
strength for one so young, his preponderance of ani- 
mal vitality driven always to its full limit by a ruth- 
less will — these were the fragments of testimony that 
Comberton gleaned from his shipmates in each schooner. 
More than that, they were personal impressions of the 
forces which had developed the latent possibilities of 
the lad so fast that, in a single summer, he had bridged 
the gap between awkward boyhood and early manhood. 

Everybody expected that upon his arrival home John 
Deane would take action against Seth Hinds and De- 
catur Beers because of the ill treatment that he had 
suffered at their hands ; yet nothing was done by the 
boy himself. It is so rare a gift to forget the hard- 
ships of the past and to use the hours of to-day against 
the hopes of to-morrow. The best manhood of to-mor- 
row is founded on to-days, not on yesterdays. 

However, my father was not willing that justice in 
his own town should go by default through inaction. 
He laid the whole affair, if so public a matter needed 
restatement, before the county attorney, who brought 
charges against both men. The upshot of the trial 
was that Hinds was acquitted of the charge of kid- 
naping, since John refused to appear against his 
uncle and there were no other witnesses to the fact. 
But Beers was found guilty of cruel and abusive treat- 
ment of the boy and was fined one thousand dollars by 
the court. Since Hinds was John Deane’s guardian 
the money was paid to him in trust for the boy, and 
everybody knew well that Captain Beers borrowed the 
thousand dollars from Hinds before paying it to the 
county clerk, who in turn delivered it to the custody 
of guardian Hinds. So it appeared to Comberton 


PLANNING LARGE 


73 


folks that Beers paid no penalty for maltreating John 
Deane half a summer on the banks and that Seth Hinds 
gave me a sound threshing, bound me hand and foot, 
and gagged me with a herring-stick only to escape scot- 
free. But it is a gift of youth to have long memories 
as well as long visions. Mackerel that are hatched in 
June do not reach maturity by October. 

Months roll into years top swiftly with men who 
press this daily work with eagerness. In the case of 
John Deane the years that followed his first deep-sea 
venture were filled with a variety of experiences. Im- 
mediately following his summer on the banks he shipped 
with Captain Ober in the Nimbus for a voyage to the 
West Indies with a cargo of cured codfish in the ves- 
sel’s hold. Another summer he was on the fishing banks 
with his captain, learning all the time about the mys- 
teries of the ocean below and the wiles and hardships 
of the ocean above, and the business of being a deep-sea 
fisherman. He took trips to the Magdalene Islands in 
the spring of the year when Comberton schooners would 
return from the Gulf of St. Lawrence loaded to the gun- 
wales with cargoes of bloater herring that were to be 
cured in the tall smoke-houses on the wharves of the 
Latona river. He did not miss the biting cold and ex- 
posure that attends the Newfoundland trip in winter 
for frozen herring. 

Two summers at the banks were followed by a wider 
range of experiences in the mackerel fisheries of Glouces- 
ter. John Deane shipped aboard a mackerel schooner 
in March and followed the intricacies of the business 
from the first rough, cold weeks off Hatteras through 
the ‘‘ Cape Shore ” trip along the coasts of Nova Sco- 
tia and Cape Breton island, back to the New England 
waters and Fundy during the warmer months, finally 
winding up the fishing season with the fleet that sailed 
into the North Bay and trailed the furtive mackerel 


74 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


until they disappeared in late October for their mysteri- 
ous winter dwelling places in southern waters. 

He loved the sea, loved the thrill of oncoming storms, 
the strife against the strength of wind and wave, the 
rage of winter and the charm of summer, the disappoint- 
ments, the victories, the storm and stress that come to 
those who follow the sea for a living. Loving the sea 
as he did and eager to perfect himself as a capable sea- 
man his advancement was rapid. Deep-sea fishermen 
learn mostly in the school of experience on the bound- 
less stretches of the ocean; to the lore of the sea not 
a few of them add a knowledge gained from study. 
This was true of John Deane. In addition to the fund 
of information that he picked up from a wide range of 
reading he spent two winters at the academy where I 
was preparing for college. Of course we were room- 
mates. While I was attempting blind Homer and ver- 
satile Cicero my friend was busied with studies that ap- 
pealed to him as more practical, especially history and 
the sciences, in which he made rapid progress. 

Except for the winter schooling together we two saw 
little of each other, since John Deane was upon the seas 
most of the time while I was attending my school duties. 
Occasionally he would be at home for a brief period 
between trips or at the close of the fishing season; but 
however little I was able to see him it was always next 
to my heart to keep alive to his whereabouts and his 
development as a fisherman. 

One spring half a dozen years after his first trip to 
the banks we were at home and together attended the 
town meeting. That was a rare occasion in Comberton 
as in other New England towns. This particular meet- 
ing was a red letter day in Comberton history from 
the fact that after all business for the day had been 
transacted and everybody was awaiting a motion for 
the meeting to adjourn Captain Seth Hinds took the 


PLANNING LARGE 


75 


floor and, greatly to the surprise of his audience, pro- 
claimed his intention to offer a reward of a thousand 
dollars to the commander of a Comberton schooner 
who should “ gather the most valuable harvest from the 
seas ” during the season. 

“ I’m giving the reward,” the captain explained, 
“ to stimulate our fisheries. The skipper’ll have to be 
a Comberton captain sailing a Comberton schooner with 
half of his crew from the town. I’m goin’ to put a 
note for a thousand dollars in the hands of the select- 
men to-day and they’ll be judges as to who wins the 
prize next faU.” 

The unexpected generosity of the captain’s was the 
talk of the town for days. When the people had time 
to reflect upon the offer most of them conceded that 
possibly there were whole-hearted motives on the don- 
or’s part in offering so big a reward. A thousand 
dollars! That was an event in Comberton. Unfor- 
tunately for the captain’s reputation, however, there 
were not a few of the loudest talkers who still persisted 
in attributing mercenary motives to Seth Hinds; it 
was unthinkable to them that he should make such an 
offer with no strings attached. What was his motive? 
That question could not be answered satisfactorily by 
his fellow townsmen. 

“ He’s got some ax to grind,” commented Bill 
Spurling in the store one evening. “ What he wants 
is to get next to Comberton voters so they’ll send him 
up to Augusty to the legislature next winter.” 

“ You’re wrong, there, as usual. Bill,” answered Eben 
Springer, loyal to his employer. “ The cap’n knows 
well enough they ain’t any other skippers but his own 
can take the prize anyhow. They’ve been high line of 
the fleet goin’ on half a dozen years. He wants to 
stimulate them.” 

“ Stimulate dogfish ! ” Bill exclaimed. ‘‘ It’s an easy 


76 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


bet that if Seth Hinds gives a thousand dollars to one 
of his skippers he’ll rob his crews of eleven hundred to 
pay the bill with interest.” 

“ That’s all right to talk such nonsense but it don’t 
get nowhere. Who’s a better fisherman in Comberton 
to-day than ’Cate Beers.? Hey.? He’s a thousand or 
two ahead of every other schooner any year. Now ain’t 
that so .? ” 

“ ’Cate Beers ! ” Bill retorted again. You make 
me tired, Eb. I’ve sailed with ’Cate Beers and know 
he’s no better than lots of other folks and a durned 
sight worse in some ways. It’s only because he’s been 
given a chance. Seth Hinds’ll give any skipper a 
chance who will drive his men like they were nigger 
slaves. Man for man, ’Cate Beers is in the same class 
with half a dozen men right here in Comberton that I 
could name. I’ll bet you one sweet cooky he gets the 
pants trimmed off him this year,” Bill concluded as he 
left the store. 

Bill was more of a prophet than he dreamed he would 
be and, as events showed, he took no small part in the 
season’s trimming. 

A thousand dollars reward! Comberton had never 
known the like of that before. How the reward loomed 
large in the minds of the fishermen! A thousand dol- 
lars was not to be lightly disregarded by any fisherman, 
especially when the earning of it would mean that the 
man was the biggest personage connected with the Com- 
berton fleet. Men grown gray in the swirl of salt 
spray mused over a success that would have been theirs 
had such an opportunity been given them in their prime. 
Youths of the fleet who were even now proving their 
mettle and showing how they were chips of the old 
block dreamed impossible dreams of sudden, overwhelm- 
ing success that would win the coveted prize for them. 
The sober, calculating senators of the sea, middle-aged 


PLANNING LARGE 


77 


and veterans of their calling, girded up their long yel- 
low oil jackets and, unconscious of any new dignity 
that they had assumed, strutted about the wharves in 
quiet confidence, each one assuring his own little circle 
of admirers that he would ‘‘ give the winner a run for 
his money,” 

Yet in all the crowd of possible and would-be com- 
petitors for Seth Hinds’ treasure none felt a thrill at 
the announcement of the reward so keenly as John 
Deane. It seemed to him that the dawn of a greater 
day was at hand, that his old enemy had placed before 
the world the very weapon which would be used by the 
younger man for his well making. To win the reward 
would be a great event not so much for its intrinsic 
value as for the satisfaction he would have in winning 
it from Seth Hinds, especially since it was generally 
agreed that Hinds expected his own skipper. Captain 
Decatur Beers, to walk off with the honors easily. It 
was a challenge John Deane could not resist, a challenge 
of two strong, unscrupulous men, a challenge of an un- 
tried youth against veteran seamen, of a single indi- 
vidual against the owner of a fleet of ships. It was 
the kind of a challenge that the soul of John Deane 
had been instinctively yearning for since his first sum- 
mer at sea. To win would require financial backing, a 
valiant crew, eternal, unyielding vigilance at sea, a 
continuous fight against the devices of scheming men 
and angry seas. Such a challenge stirs the blood of 
men of the Viking kind. 

The days that followed the historic town meeting 
were filled to the brim for John Deane. By day he was 
at the wharves talking and consulting with captains 
and fishermen, in the evening he was at our sitting-room 
table figuring the evening through on brown paper. 
In all his talk and figuring he kept his business to him- 
self ; at least he announced his plans only to those whom 


78 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


he could trust. One evening when we were all gathered 
about the table and he had been figuring for an hour 
or more he pushed his papers from him and looking up 
from his work told us of his plans for the future. 

“ IVe hired the Nimbus for the summer,” he began, 
addressing my father. All of us stopped in our occu- 
pations, looking toward him in astonishment while we 
waited for him to explain. 

“ Hired the Nimbus! ” father exclaimed, incredulous 
that even so high spirited a fellow as John Deane should 
undertake such a project at his age. “ What under the 
sun are you going to do with the Nimbus? ” 

“ Going mackerel seining in her,” John answered 
briefly; then at father’s request for information as to 
how he would equip and man a schooner, or could get 
credit to finance the endeavor for a whole season John 
laid bare the result of his planning and work. He had 
saved up a thousand dollars in his fishing experiences 
the past five years, which would form the nest egg of 
his endeavors. 

“ Yes,” father interrupted rather uncordially, ‘‘ that 
would just about take you and your schooner out of the 
Latona river.” 

John came back with a laugh and with an earnest- 
ness in his words that carried conviction to his listeners 
that he had planned carefully before undertaking his 
project. 

“ I have the thousand that I have saved in the last 
half dozen years,” he went on. “ Then Captain Ober has 
given me good terms in paying for the schooner’s rental, 
in June, September and the last of the season. I ex- 
pect to make the ship pay for her own rent this summer 
as we go along.” 

“ Suppose you don’t have any luck,” father inter- 
rupted again. “ There’s many a good man who fails 


PLANNING LARGE 


79 


at sea because luck is against him. It’s a big gamble 
in the fishing business.” 

“ So it is,” retorted John, ‘‘ and the fellow who is 
alive is the winner. Mackerel seining requires a pair of 
good eyes first of all. I’ve got as good as any of them. 
It means a knowledge of how mackerel maneuver, where 
they stay, and a thousand and one tricks of the trade ; 
even then the best seiner makes a mistake and wrong 
guess where they are or what they will do next. 
Finally, you have got to be working day and night, 
week in and week out, to win against the mackerel. 
That’s what I can do with any one in the whole Glouces- 
ter fleet. I can work as hard and as long as the best 
of them and I’ll risk the luck and other part of the 
business. I’ve been with two of the best seiners of New 
England, which gives me a good start in knowing some- 
thing about the business.” 

“ Well, that sounds good,” said father again. “ But 
come back to Comberton. You’ve got to fit the Nim- 
bus for the seining business. That will take money, 
more than your bank account.” 

“ Yes, I’ll need to buy seine and seine-boat, make 
some minor alterations in the Nimbus, such as a seine- 
roller, boat-boom and dipnets. That’s the principal 
charge on that count. Two weeks ago, you may re- 
member, I became of age. You may have forgotten 
that judgment was rendered in my favor six years ago 
to the extent of a thousand dollars. You Comberton 
folks thought Seth Hinds was going to keep hold of 
that money all his life but he isn’t. The court ordered 
’Cate Beers to pay to Seth Hinds, my guardian, the 
sum of a thousand dollars. My attorney tells me that 
in addition Hinds owes me interest on that amount for 
six years, making a total of thirteen hundred dollars, 
which makes a handy birthday present for me. Be- 


80 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


sides, I expect another thousand before the season is 
over. I’m going into the seining fishery because I 
believe that I can make a bigger stock than any other 
Comberton man can make in the grand-bank fishery for 
cod. In an average season a mackerel seiner will stock 
more than a grand-banker. Captain Hinds did not 
limit his reward to the bank fishermen. He will squirm 
some when he learns that I have entered the race for his 
prize. That’s why I have hired the Nimbus for the 
season.” 

“ And you will be the captain ? ” I inquired, inter- 
rupting for the first time. 

John nodded in assent. Then he resumed speaking 
to tell us that he had already secured several of his 
crew. Bill Spurling and George Keene, old mackerel 
seiners, Ranny McDonald and Lew Mills, who had been 
sailing from Comberton for the last three years. The 
others of his crew he would get from grand-bank crews, 
with one or two promising greenhorns to make up the 
necessary crew from the home port. 

“ Have you any idea what green hands you will take 
along? ” father inquired. 

‘‘ No, sir. But I’ll pick two or three fellows with 
plenty of life in them. Young fellows, strong and 
quick to pull at the oar or on the purse-line, make 
good mackerelmen,” he answered. 

“ David,” said my father, suddenly turning to me, 
‘‘ why don’t you ship with Captain Deane for the sum- 
mer? You are not much use in the hayfield and here’s 
a chance for you to earn a little money for your col- 
lege bills.” 

Before I could reply my mother interposed. “ Why, 
Hiram Graham, David’s only a boy. Besides — ” 
She hesitated to go on. 

‘‘Besides what? As I remember, John wasn’t much 
more than a boy when he first went to sea. David is 


PLANNING LARGP 


81 


nineteen now, where John was fifteen then,” father re- 
plied in a manner to show how easily he could settle a 
question. 

‘‘ I was going to say that we have planned for David 
to have a college education and not become a fisher- 
man,” my mother answered reluctantly, fearing that 
her answer might offend John. 

“ I would not have to stay at sea all my life, mother,” 
I interrupted, all eager on the moment to embark in 
the undertaking that father had suggested. “ I don’t 
know how I can earn money unless I go to sea or do 
something like that.” 

“ Then you are willing to ship as one of my crew? ” 
John inquired. 

“ If my folks are willing, and I guess they are,” was 
my reply. 

So it was settled as quickly and unexpectedly as that. 
I was to become a mackerel fisherman until the opening 
of the college in the fall. That night I slept with the 
captain of the Nimbus and we talked about my equip- 
ment and his former lack of equipment and laid great 
plans for the summer, far into the night. 


CHAPTER X 


AN ASH BREEZE 

AT high noon on Friday, in mid-April, moorings 
/A were cast off, the sails shaken out of stays and 
•A under the guidance of a diminutive tugboat the 
schooner Nimbus swung out into Gloucester harbor 
amid the cheers and good wishes of the crowd on the 
wharf. Captain John Deane, the pride of every man 
of his crew and the envy of many a man on the wharf 
old enough to be his father, was at the wheel. At his 
command to set the mainsail the crew manned the ropes, 
one crowd at the throat halyards, another at the peak, 
and swayed to and fro as their hands and arms went up 
and down at every pull. When the maingafF swung 
free from its place on the boom a pufF of wind caught 
the sail, bellying out great folds to its accustomed 
smoothness. As the maingafF neared the masthead the 
laboring crew found difficulty in sending it upward. 

“ Hold on your throat, you’re choking the peak,” 
called one of the older men. The puffing crowd at the 
port passed the halyard under a chock to hold the sail 
steady while their comrades hoisted the peak above the 
ambitious throat. 

“ Now, sway her up, all together! ” 

At the last stage of hoisting the huge sail the halyard 
was passed under a chock, some of the crew strung 
along the deck pulling away at the free end of it, while 
others, after placing their feet against the foot of the 
mainmast, seized the standing part of the rope high up 


AN ASH BREEZE 


83 


and swayed outward until their bodies touched the deck. 
The process was repeated until the sail was chock-a- 
block, the leech was drawn tight as a violin cord and 
the peak of the sail stood out at a sharp angle in the 
air. 

After the mainsail had been set the “jumbo” or 
forestay-sail, foresail and main jib followed in quick 
succession. The tug cut loose from the schooner be- 
fore all the lower sails were set. A fresh northwest 
breeze, favorable to our course, carried the schooner 
forward at a good clip. The topsails and light jibs 
were set when the harbor entrance was passed. Under 
full spread of sails the Nimbus bowled along out into 
the open sea. Gradually the volume of ocean increased, 
the land astern receded, and shortly the fishing port 
which we would not see again for weeks disappeared 
from view below the northern horizon. My experi- 
ences as a deep-sea fisherman had begun. 

The past four weeks had been very busy ones for 
John Deane. In one particular he acted wisely ; when- 
ever he found one of his crew whom he could trust he 
would commission him with full power to go ahead. In 
this way he was enabled to fit out the Nimbus in the 
last three weeks of the month. He had an interview 
with Lew Mills which resulted in Mills accepting the po- 
sition of cook and undertaking the task of finding a 
few mackerelmen at North Haven. He sent Bill Spurl- 
ing to Gloucester to pick out the other men, the best 
he could find, and make a start at equipping the Nim- 
bus for the southern spring mackerel fishery. He him- 
self attended to the Nimbus at Comberton, had her hull 
scraped anew and painted, put aboard a store of food 
supplies that could be purchased as cheaply there as in 
Gloucester, overhauled the sails and rigging and got 
together a crew of eight Comberton fishermen including 
himself. Amid the multiple details of his work he had 


84 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


also the pleasure of receiving from his attorneys a check 
for thirteen hundred dollars, with a statement that 
Captain Hinds settled the account under protest only. 
When all was in readiness the Nimbus with its young 
captain and attending crew of five, sailed away from 
the wharves of Comberton upon the most eventful voy- 
age ever a Comberton schooner experienced. We 
picked up Lew Mills and four other men at North 
Haven. When we reached Gloucester Bill Spurling was 
awaiting us with three other men. We lacked one man 
to make a crew of sixteen and him we found before the 
Nimbus set sail for the fishing grounds. 

Everything was new and strange to me. To be sure, 
I had some knowledge of vessels, their rigging and 
equipment. Yet it was a harbor knowledge, wholly 
theoretical and never put to practice. We were 
scarcely outside East Point when Skipper John, that 
being the title I had decided to use when speaking of 
John Deane, called for the watch at the wheel. My 
berth was in the cabin, the first one aft the captain’s 
quarters ; so it was my first trick at the wheel. The 
course given me by the skipper was southeast. 
“ Southeast,” I answered in taking the wheel, as if I 
had always handled spokes of wheels instead of alge- 
braic formulas. 

It was a kind act of George Keene to come to my aid 
during my trick at the wheel. The wind was well 
astern. One might think that the matter of steering 
would be very simple, since we had only to keep the 
schooner before the wind to run on our course. When 
we got away from land several miles and the waves 
rolled higher and higher from astern I found that the 
wheel needed constant watching to keep the schooner to 
her course. As the Nimbus mounted the crest of a 
wave she would veer a little to port; on descending to 
the trough she plunged even farther off her true course 


AN ASH BREEZE 


85 


to the starboard. The big mainsail was well out over 
the port rail. The wind would strike into the sail in 
varying puffs and cause it to yaw back and forth, 
which increased the unsteadiness of the schooner. 

George Keene took position opposite me at the wheel- 
box. He explained how to put the wheel down when 
the vessel veered to port in mounting the wave and as 
she raced down into the trough to check the starboard 
sheer by turning the wheel a few spokes in the opposite 
direction. The theory of steering with the wind astern 
became very clear to me at once; but actually it took 
weeks of practice before I could handle the Nimbus 
tolerably well without being conscious of my act. The 
experienced mariner holds the vessel to her course by 
plying the wheel a couple of spokes only and does it all 
unmindful of his act. 

During the afternoon we crossed Middlebank, reach- 
ing Cape Cod before dark. Late in the evening Nauset 
Light gleamed dimly on the starboard quarter, which 
was the last indication of land for the day. 

During the night the breeze freshened. High seas 
were running on Saturday morning. All that day we 
ran out of sight of land in taking a wide course to the 
southeastward to pass the South Shoals. Sunday 
morning our course was changed to the westward and 
the schooner rolled along in the trough of the seas, for 
a wind still blew hard. Block Island was passed be- 
fore noon. Later in the afternoon we were off Montauk 
Point, Long Island, which appeared very unattractive 
through the rain and driving spray, especially as I was 
sick as I had never dreamed it was possible for mortal 
to be sick and survive. 

Two days from port and we had been through some 
seas! All my life I had heard tell of running with 
“ scuppers under,” the “ lee rail awash,” and all that ; 
now we were having experiences. Others of the crew 


86 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


were not disturbed bj the rough seas, so I tried to re- 
strain myself. But those first experiences were thrill- 
ing ones ! The schooner rocked and rolled all day Sun- 
day in the trough of the waves. At times her bows 
went under and the blue water would come pouring 
in sheets over the cat-heads to rush down to the brake 
before it found its way back to its proper element over 
the rail or through the scuppers. The Nimbus would 
shake her head and throw off the masses of water as if she 
was playing with a toy, then plunge forward down into 
the deep trough like a racing steed. 

On his maiden voyage as commander, John Deane 
showed a disregard for wind and wave that shortly 
made his name famous among the fishing fleet. His 
maxim was to lose as little time as possible in port and 
on the passage to and from the fishing grounds. He 
had sailed in the crew of the Nimbus two years, long 
enough to discover that she was no light breeze sailer; 
but when it came to rough weather, with the schooner 
well ballasted astern, there was none in the fleet that 
could compare with her. 

When the course of the schooner was turned south- 
ward at Montauk Point we got a little taste of what 
to expect from our skipper. The weather became 
more boisterous and the seas rougher. Skipper John 
kept the log-line at the rail all the time to keep track 
of our speed and the distance we were getting south. 
Most of the daytime of Monday we raced through the 
rough seas at a ten-knot clip, up wave and down trough, 
with seas breaking over the schooner much of the time. 
On Tuesday morning, then, we were not surprised to 
find ourselves in the vicinity of the spring fishing grounds 
for mackerel. What was of more importance was a 
subsidence of both wind and seas shortly after we 
reached the proper latitude where we could expect to 
find traces of schooling mackerel. 


AN ASH BREEZE 


87 


Instead of fair skies and smooth seas and an abun- 
dance of schooling mackerel, as we had hoped, we were 
doomed to disappointment. The seas subsided only to 
rise again. Schools of mackerel and flocks of sea-geese 
disappeared from the region where they had been re- 
ported in abundance. With the dawn of another day 
a gray streak of clouds smutted the low horizon, an- 
other night found our schooner tossing about on 
troubled waters. A “ dry northeaster ” struck us full 
and fair, although not without adequate preparation. 
Our seine and seine-boat were stowed snugly on deck in 
anticipation of rough weather, the upper sails were 
furled, the decks cleared for action. Others of the 
seining fleet in the vicinity ran to the shelter of the 
Delaware capes, only the Nimbus remaining outside to 
contest the rage of the winds. 

Other days came, filled for a time with hope of a 
chance to catch mackerel; but always we were doomed 
to disappointment. Even when a day or two of fair 
weather settled upon the seas the mackerel came to the 
surface in scattered schools, always too wary and wild 
to be taken by the great seines. Storm after storm fol- 
lowed in regular succession, scattering the mackerel, 
driving the fleet to the friendly shelter of nearby ports 
and deferring the day when any of the schooners should 
be fortunate to make a catch of fish. 

One day, on the ninth of May, the seas again spread 
out in smooth waters, little flocks of sea-geese — tell- 
tale spirits of the haunts of schooling mackerel — ap- 
peared mysteriously from out the skies, the mackerel 
fleet gathered from widely scattered regions and scoured 
the seas in search of the elusive prey. Out of the north 
came another schooner to join those that had been buf- 
feted by a fortnight’s gale. It was Bill Spurling who 
announced from the foremast crosstrees the name of the 
on-coming vessel. 


88 


SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


“ The schooner Harvest Home, of Comberton, heaves 
in sight on the horizon,” he shouted down to the won- 
dering crew on the deck of the Nimbus. 

If any had doubts about Bill’s information they 
were dispelled a couple of hours later when the Harvest 
Home joined the fleet. She was fitted out for seining 
and, when we passed close by her, we saw for ourselves 
that none other than Decatur Beers was in command. 
Not only in command, but luck was with the veteran of 
the Grand Banks. His schooner had not been with the 
fleet two hours before they had taken aboard a school 
of mackerel big enough to cause the lucky skipper to 
head about at once for market. 

The mackerel appeared in scattered schools all about 
us just as the Harvest Home joined the fleet. Her ar- 
rival could not have been more opportune; it was al- 
most uncanny how success attended the schooner from 
the first. 

Not to the Harvest Home alone did good luck come. 
Others of the fleet secured small catches during the day. 
I was on the crosstrees with Skipper John shortly after 
the arrival of the schooner which, we all felt sure, was 
destined to be our rival and enemy. We were scouring 
the seas intently for a school of fish. On the port side 
I discovered something black on the water’s surface 
which I thought might be a school of mackerel. 

“ What is that down there.? ” Skipper John took a 
glance at the spot, then shouted to the men below, 
“ Draw up the boat.” 

“You’d better go down,” he said to me, but before 
I was half way down the rigging he had called out again, 
“ Get into the boat ! ” 

I was flopping my clumsy rubber boots in and out 
of the ratlines as fast as I could when a streak of some- 
thing shot down past me to deck. It was the skipper 
descending on the standing rigging. I grabbed a rope 


AN ASH BREEZE 


89 


and swung onto deck just as the seine-boat came along- 
side. There was no time for oil clothes. The crew 
were rushing from the cabin and forecastle with their 
oil clothes in hand. We tumbled into the boat without 
ceremony, half of us without oil clothes. In another 
moment we were pulling away toward the school of 
mackerel. 

As we came alongside the school Bill Spurling, 
glancing at the black spot, exclaimed, ‘‘ It’s a cart- 
wheeler, boys. See them go around! We’ve got to 
catch them anyway.” 

And catch them we did, the biggest catch for the en- 
tire fleet in a month. The crew of the Harvest Home 
had hardly got the last mackerel of their catch aboard 
the schooner before they hoisted topsails and light jibs 
and headed the schooner toward New York. We lost 
no time in getting into the race although neither skip- 
per gave up further attempts to catch mackerel. We 
were out in the boat several times and made two fruit- 
less sets of the seine; but always the general trend of 
our schooner was northward. By three in the after- 
noon both schooners gave up all attempts at fishing. 
We were in a more favorable position than the other, 
since we were two miles farther north and a half mile 
nearer the wind. All our sails were set; yet with this 
spread of canvas the Nimbus, which was making four 
knots an hour only in the light wind, was being dis- 
tanced half a knot or more every hour by the other 
schooner. We watched the Harvest Home narrowly 
and were reluctant to admit that she was surely gain- 
ing on the Nimbus. By six o’clock the two schooners 
were even in the race. When darkness settled upon the 
quiet waters the Nimbus was two miles astern its rival, 
although half a mile to windward. 

“ Give us a twelve-knot breeze,” said George Keene, 

and we will trim old Beers to market. This light 


90 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


stuff is just what the Harvest Home wants and the 
Nimbus doesn’t. They’ll reach to market half a day 
ahead of us, get a top price for their mackerel and 
we’ll have to take what we can.” 

“ Yes, but we’ll get to market, and that’s more than 
many a poor fellow has done this spring,” retorted Lee 
Parish. 

When darkness had set in and, as everybody sup- 
posed, the schooner made ready for the night, we were 
called from below by the watch telling us that the skip- 
per wished to see all men on deck. Lew Mills, the 
cook, was the last to appear. We gathered about the 
skipper as he stood on the brake. 

“ Men,” he said quietly after Mills appeared, “ we 
have got a good fare of fish aboard, a lucky streak for 
us. We want to get the fish to market as soon as pos- 
sible. It looks as if Beers would be half a day ahead 
of us at the rate we are going. I want you to take 
hold to-night and put the Nimbus in the lead. If we 
can be in the lead oflp Sandy Hook the race is ours. 
We must not let the Harvest Home crew know what we 
are up to. We will tow the Nimbus to-night, turn and 
turn about. One crew will row until ten, then another 
take their places in the seine-boat until midnight. 
Then there will be another shift all around before day- 
light, when it will be time to quit towing the schooner. 
There’s fifteen of us to do the rowing, not counting the 
cook; he’s got enough to do without getting into the 
boat. I’ll take my turn with the rest of you; we will 
have a shift of eight men in the boat the first two 
hours and seven men at the next shift. We can steal 
a couple of miles every hour on the Harvest Home and 
they won’t be the wiser until daybreak, when we ought 
to be in the lead several miles.” 

The cook interrupted the skipper at this point. 

You can count me in on this deal, skipper. I’m 


AN ASH BREEZE 


91 


neither sugar nor salt, and I guess I can do my share 
of rowing for one night, say from now till ten and 
from twelve to two when it will be time for me to get 
up anyway.” 

“ Good for you, steward,” shouted the men, in good 
humor at the prospects of getting in the lead over their 
rival. 

“ In the morning,” concluded the skipper, “ we will 
not be worn out much, resting and sleeping half of the 
time, and I’ll miss my guess if we don’t beat the Harvest 
Home to market.” 

I was in the first shift of men to go into the seine- 
boat. We rigged up a long painter and at a distance 
of a couple of hundred feet ahead of the schooner we 
pulled away steadily until the watch at the wheel of the 
Nimbus called us aboard. During the two hours in the 
boat we had rowed into the wind a little off the regular 
course to make sure of getting past the rival schooner 
without being discovered. The skipper also warned us 
against unnecessary noise in talking and at the oars for 
fear of alarming the watch on the Harvest Horne. 
When the boat went out a second time Skipper John 
took his place at the oars and rowed with his crew until 
midnight. 

I pulled off my boots and coat before hauling the 
quilts over me ; then I was lost to the world until some- 
body shook my shoulder at midnight. 

“ Come on, boy, time to get the sleepy-dogs out of 
your eyes.” 

In the two hours from midnight until two o’clock 
the wind remained light, scarcely a breeze stirring on 
deck although there was a little movement in the top- 
sails. None of us had seen the Harvest Home since 
nine in the evening. We could only conjecture how 
much we were outdistancing her. At two in the morn- 
ing I returned to my berth with a feeling of having 


92 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


done a day’s work since the time I turned out twenty- 
two hours previously. 

Morning dawned without a breeze. The schooner 
lurched and reeled along sometimes without headway, 
the sails flapping and the booms swaying back and 
forth across the deck. We were making some head- 
way, however, and better still our rival was a half 
dozen miles astern of the Nimbus at five in the morning. 
It took the crew of the Harvest Home some time to 
conclude that the Nimbus, instead of being below the 
horizon astern of them, was really in the lead of their 
schooner by a good margin. When it did dawn upon 
them that Skipper John had stolen a march on them 
during the night they lost no time in manning their 
seine-boat and beginning the long, hard stern chase to 
bring their schooner up with the Nimbus, 

By eight o’clock they had made substantial head- 
way, there being only a mile’s distance between the two 
schooners. We began to calculate how long it would 
take for them to be in the lead of us. As they ad- 
vanced we became restless. Some of the crew won- 
dered why our skipper did not order us into the seine- 
boat and retain lead over the Harvest Home, Finally, 
Lew Mills suggested to the skipper that the crew were 
awaiting orders to man the boat. 

“So they like the ash breeze, do they?” responded 
Skipper John. “ I thought probably they got enough 
of that last night.” 

“We did for the night but we don’t like to see those 
other fellows go right by us in broad daylight and 
hand out the tail-end of a tow-rope to us as they go 
past,” Mills answered. 

“ How’s the dinner getting along, cook ? ” the skipper 
asked. 

“ Oh, I’m not neglecting the dinner. That will be 
served on time ; only I am interested in getting to mar- 


AN ASH BREEZE 


93 


ket before the others do. It’s too bad to be up all 
night and then lose the race in broad daylight,” the 
cook replied. 

“ You are right, cook. We won’t lose the race 
either. I want every man to have his dinner by nine 
o’clock.” 

The cook disappeared in the forecastle. Ten min- 
utes later he sounded the dinner call for the first gang. 
Twenty minutes later he had removed the plates of the 
first gang and we of the second gang were grinding 
away on our food. It was a few minutes before nine 
when we came up from the forecastle. The Harvest 
Home was three hundred feet astern of us, her crew 
pulling earnestly on the oars to get ahead of the 
Nimbus, Skipper John watched the laboring crew for 
a few minutes with apparent indifference ; then he turned 
to Lew Mills and gave him instructions about handling 
the Nimbus, It was not until the other schooner was 
abreast ours that we got an inkling of Skipper John’s 
plan. Leaving four men in the schooner with Mills he 
had the rest of us man the seine-boat; then we pulled 
away from the schooner’s side this time without towing 
the Nimbus, Sandy Hook was about five miles away 
and we could expect to be picked up by a tow-boat at 
any time. 

Skipper John’s strategy had placed his schooner in 
the lead of his rival’s by several miles. Then while his 
own crew were resting and getting their dinner the 
crew of the Harvest Home were towing their schooner 
to overtake ours, doing the hardest kind of work for 
four hours while we were resting. Now it would be 
an even race for a tow-boat. Skipper John with a fresh 
crew, the other schooner with a crew already weary 
with rowing and unrefreshed by dinner. 

Away we pulled from the Nimbus with full, strong 
strokes. In a minute more Beers, who was watching 


94 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


us narrowly, realized Skipper John’s tactics. He had 
been taken by surprise by his young opponent and 
fairly outwitted during the night. He did not hesitate 
a moment when he saw our boat was free of the 
schooner. Dropping his steering oar he stepped to 
the towing line and cast it off. His boat, too, was free 
for the race. Away they went — no Comberton 
schooner ever had better crews than Beers carried — 
bending to their oars as if they never knew what 
fatigue was. It was a grand spurt. Under the spur 
of their skipper they struggled to take the lead from the 
boat of the Nimbus, 

Gradually their boat forged ahead of ours. We 
bent to our work eagerly and tried to cover the gap 
between the boats. It was a race of giants of the 
sea, a race that meant bread and butter for the winner 
as well as prestige among the seining fleet. In five 
minutes more we were again abreast the boat of the 
Harvest Home, They were pulling hard and strain- 
ing every muscle to keep in the lead. We could not 
see for ourselves, for every man was giving his undi- 
vided attention to his long oar. But our skipper was 
sizing up the situation for us. 

“ Save yourselves, men. Keep steady. We’ve got 
them beat in twenty minutes more. They are tuck- 
ered out to begin with while you are fresh.” 

He spoke in low tones. We made no further effort 
to regain the lead. Skipper John was content for the 
present to keep abreast the other boat. Twenty 
minutes passed. We were now sure that the skipper 
was right. We shot occasional glances at the other 
men. Some of them still had on their oil clothes, for 
they had not had time to remove extra clothes. In 
spite of the perspiration that streamed from their faces 
they stuck to their oars as if chained in place like 
rowers in ancient galleys. Half an hour now since the 


AN ASH BREEZE 


96 


race was on. Our boat was in the lead by its length. 
Quarter of an hour more and the gap had increased to 
fifty yards. We were rowing strong, yet felt we had 
good reserve strength left when the crisis should come. 
The skipper spoke to us occasionally to keep our minds 
off the work and to steady the stroke. 

Suddenly we saw John Deane straighten up and look 
forward intently. Then he pulled off his hat and 
shouted to us the call we had long been hoping to hear. 

“ Go ahead on your oars, boys. Go ahead ! Pull 
for all there is in you. A tug-boat in sight and we 
must get her first.” 

We were equal to the call for the final spurt. John 
Deane had played us well, kept us fresh in the morn- 
ing hours, given us a dinner to work on, conserved our 
strength as we rowed against our opponents and had 
made no appeal to us until the last moment. Our boat 
shot through the water. Back and forth swung our 
backs, always keeping pace with Lew Parish. Never 
a skip nor a mis-stroke that morning. We never had 
been tired in the world. No crew of hardy Vikings 
ever bent to their oars with keener relish than did we 
young subjects of our captain who was king in our 
eyes that day. Muscles might be fatigued, but the ex- 
citement of the moment and the spur of our leader’s 
voice drove fatigue from our limbs. Oh, it was grand 
to dip the long oar into the water and come back 
against the ash with back and arms and legs. Good 
old ash breeze, how many victories have been recorded 
in your name! 

The crew of the Harvest Home were not to be outdone 
by a set of youngsters. No, that would not sound well 
down home. They would have to explain how it had 
happened. What a come-back for tired men! Beers 
pleaded with them, urged them forward, waved his hat 
and gesticulated with his arms. The Harvest Home 


96 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


just could not be beaten ! It was not her custom. The 
tired, hungry men responded like heroes to their lead- 
er’s entreaties. Their oars bent to the snapping point. 
Their strong backs rounded over and straightened to 
the pull in unison. What power was in their strokes! 
Their boat leaped through the water and the gap be- 
tween the boats lessened. 

When John Deane looked back and saw that the other 
boat was gaining he called out, “ Was last night’s work 
all for nothing .J’ What do you say, Lee Parish.? 
Drive her harder ! ” 

No man of the fleet could row with Lee Parish. He 
was a man of iron muscles, that had been hardened 
through years of service at sea and tempered in the 
halibut fishery of Iceland. It was grand to see his 
response and to watch how the men behind him on the 
thwarts, taking his stroke for a pace, fairly lifted 
themselves off their seats as they pulled at their oars. 
We were getting near the tugboat, which was coming 
on at full speed. This much we could tell from Skip- 
per John’s motions. 

“ We’re right here, men. One minute more. Don’t 
mind me when the tug comes. Keep rowing right past 
the tug.” 

The end came suddenly. Skipper John stood at the 
steering oar watching to board the tug with no waste 
of time that would allow the other boat to come up. 

‘‘Trail the starboard oars!” he yelled. We had 
scant time to drop our oars under the side of the boat 
when the tug-boat shot past. With a twist of the oar 
Skipper John threw the stern of the boat in toward 
the tug then, before we were aware what was happen- 
ing, he made a flying leap through the air and fell in 
a heap over the rail of the tug-boat. He scrambled 
to his feet and rushed to the wheel-house just as the 
tug-boat shot up to the other seine-boat. 


AN ASH BREEZE 


97 


“ Fifty dollars to tow me to market ! ” John Deane 
shouted to the man at the wheel. 

“ All right,” he nodded. 

The other skipper raised an imploring hand toward 
the officer of the tug. 

“ One hundred dollars to take my schooner to Ful- 
ton Market,” he shouted from his boat. 

The officer hesitated a moment. Before he could 
reply John Deane spoke, “ You know your business, 
captain. What are you going to do ? ” 

‘‘ I can’t take you, sir,” the officer shouted back to 
the skipper of the Harvest Home, “ I’ve agreed to 
take this man.” 


CHAPTER XI 


MAKING GOOD 

A WEEK after our exciting entrance to New 
York harbor the Nimbus reached Gloucester, 
where we remained three days out-fitting the 
schooner for the Cape Shore trip. The southern spring 
fishing was over and the seining fleet was making ready 
for other scenes of endeavor. By the middle of May 
the schools of mackerel in their annual migration into 
northern waters were heading one part into the Gulf 
of Maine, another into the Gulf of St. Lawrence. The 
latter school of fish pass northeastward along the coasts 
of Nova Scotia and Cape Breton Island. It is at this 
season of the year that the seiners hope to make good 
catches on what they call the Cape Shore trip. 

Word had reached Gloucester before our arrival of 
John Deane’s strategy in outwitting the veteran Beers 
in the race to market. His good reputation for fight- 
ing out the storms while in southern waters, coupled 
with his boyhood experiences on the banks, now noised 
about by his friends, and the recent outwitting of his 
Comberton rival placed John Deane’s name on every 
tongue. He was a newcomer among the skippers of 
the fleet, although his reputation as a fisherman was 
known favorably by several crews with whom he had 
shared the toil and dangers of deep-sea fishing. 

We learned ashore that as soon as Captain Beers 
returned to Comberton from a trip to the Magdalene 
Islands for herring he and Hinds had begun to outfit 
98 


MAKING GOOD 


99 


the grand-banker for seining. In his younger days 
Beers had a good deal of experience in seining porgies 
on the Maine coast; so it had been easy for Hinds to 
conclude that his crack fisherman could seine mackerel 
as readily as porgies. Hence the two had set about 
out-fitting the Harvest Home with so much zeal that 
Beers was enabled to make a trip to southern waters 
and by sheer good luck catch a deck load of mackerel. 
There was a pronounced opinion among the crew of the 
Nimbus that Beers had entered the mackerel fishery for 
no other purpose than to beat John Deane and win the 
prize offered by Seth Hinds. Both he and Hinds had 
personal reasons for keeping the prize from him. 
Time would tell. 

Liverpool, a small harbor not far from Cape Sable, 
was the rendezvous of the American fishing fleet until 
the skippers should make inquiries regarding the ap- 
pearance of the migrating schools of mackerel on the 
Cape Shore. We reached Liverpool on a Sunday morn- 
ing and found a fleet of thirty mackerel seiners already 
there, mostly from the Gloucester fleet. A heavy fog 
settled down upon the little harbor that afternoon, 
effectively locking the fleet in port until clearer weather 
should allow them to issue forth again in search of 
mackerel. While the fleet remained at Liverpool an 
incident occurred which showed very clearly how De- 
catur Beers’ sails were drawing and which hastened the 
oncoming of open hostility between the commanders of 
the Nimbus and the Harvest Home, 

An afternoon of sports and games was planned by 
some of the younger skippers to furnish entertainment 
to the hundreds of American fishermen ashore at Liver- 
pool. The affair had been suggested by Captain Beers 
in order to bring the young commander of the Nhnbus 
into competition with the best athletes of the Gloucester 
fleet. John Deane’s name was on everybody’s tongue 


100 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


because of his recent outwitting of Beers in the race 
to market; his reputation as an athlete was noised 
abroad among the crews until he became their hero, 
whether he was deserving the title or not. Always the 
name of Beers was associated with his and usually to 
the discredit of that worthy sea-dog’s reputation. So 
Beers was eager to suggest the contests with the hope 
that his rival, being drawn into them by popular 
clamor, would be worsted by some athlete of the fleet. 
We were all ignorant of the plans which had been laid 
to involve our skipper in the contests and went along 
with him to the games, expecting an afternoon of un- 
alloyed pleasure. 

Half a thousand fishermen jostled each other good 
naturedly at the scene of the contests. It was a crowd 
of vikings drawn together from the north Atlantic 
fishing ports, “ Down Easters ” from Bucksport and 
North Haven, “ Blue Noses ” from Shelburne and Cape 
Negro, “ P — I’S ” from Souris or Tignish, stalwart 
Cape Breton Scotsmen from Port Hood, and the in- 
evitable Newfoundlander whose cradle had been a dory. 
Of course Gloucester fishermen were there, but they 
were for the most part made up of bold men who have 
migrated to the place from other northern ports. 

The athletic events started off with an uninteresting 
three-legged race. This was followed by a sack-race, 
which drew a dozen men from as many schooners, each 
man being swallowed to his arm pits in an immense 
gunny-sack and making all sorts of penguin-like move- 
ments to be the first to cross the line. A restless mur- 
mur came from the crowd after these preliminaries were 
over ; they called for something “ real men ” could do. 
Those in charge of the games brought forth boxing 
gloves and, holding them up in sight of the crowd, 
called out, “ Come on there, mates, bring up your 
John L’s.” 


MAKING GOOD 


101 


Several men whose known fighting abilities made them 
the admiration of their fellow shipmates, were urged 
to try on the gloves. Some of the fellows stepped 
forth willingly, others were thrust reluctantly into the 
open ring made by the assembled men. But there was 
evident disappointment among the crowd. The man 
for whom they were looking most eagerly was still in 
the sidelines and nobody had urged him to put on the 
gloves to try his skill against the crowd. 

“ Here, you Nimbus fellows, where’s your cham- 
pion.^ ” one of the fishermen jeered at us. Why don’t 
you put up somebody instead of seeing all the fun and 
giving none.” 

“ Oh, don’t you bail out your boat so fast, mister,” 
responded Bill Spurling. “ We’ll furnish a man all 
right when you get some of this little fry out of the 
way.” 

Bill’s ready wit raised a laugh against the other fel- 
low. When the fistic contest had continued for half 
an hour and a stalwart giant from the Storm King 
had routed all who confronted him, the crowd was 
eager to have him contest the championship of the 
fleet with the skipper of the Nimbus, 

‘‘ Now trot out your champion, old cock-eye,” some- 
one called out to BiU Spurling. 

That’s right,” called another fellow from the 
crowd, “ put up your wonderful boy captain. 
He’s such a marvel we want to get a look at his 
spars.” 

All eyes centered on the crew of the Nimbus, We 
were standing together in a group watching the prog- 
ress of the sports. It had not occurred to any of us 
yet that a plot had been laid to involve John Deane in 
the contests. Naturally we turned toward our skipper, 
awaiting his reply. Seeing that something was ex- 
pected of him he stepped forward a little and said, “ It 


102 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


doesn’t seem fair to this man who has just had three 
men against him to take on a fresh one.” 

The crowd misinterpreted his motive. Before he 
could proceed further he was interrupted by several of 
them calling out together, “ Don’t be a quitter ! ” 
“ Put up, or shut up ! ” and other cries that were far 
from respectable. It flashed over us in a moment what 
their game was. Skipper John understood, too, and 
his face flushed at the thought. It was dangerous busi- 
ness when the flush came to his cheeks, I had found that 
out long before. He turned sharply on the crowd. 

‘‘ All right, you men, if you are ready so is the Nim- 
bus crowd. We will put up a man, who is the youngest 
in our crew, probably the youngest in the crowd. We’ll 
put him up against your champion. David Graham, 
come here ! ” 

I was fairly dazed with the unexpected turn of af- 
fairs. My own amazement was as nothing compared 
with the way John Deane’s presentation of me was re- 
ceived by the crowd. They did not want me, they 
wanted John Deane; they looked upon it as an insult 
that the proven champion of the crowd should be caUed 
upon to box the youngest greenhorn in the fleet. Bill 
Spurling, who always had a way of doing the right 
thing at the proper time, came to the skipper’s rescue. 

“ You fellows needn’t feel so dispirited,” he said, 
drawing his foreflnger across his nasal port-holes, to 
have your champion box this young fellow. I’ve seen 
him with the gloves on and I tell you there’s nobody, 
except the skipper here who showed him how to box, 
can hold his face in front of him long and look natural. 
Trot out your champion. The Nimbus ain’t so hard 
put that she’s got to spread all her canvas on the main- 
mast.” 

While they were putting the gloves on my hands Lew 


MAKING GOOD 


103 


Mills said to me, “ You’re up against the ‘ Belfast Fog- 
horn,’ boy.” 

“ Who’s he? ” I inquired, anxious to learn all that 
was possible about my unexpected opponent. For I 
had a wholesome respect for him after watching him 
overcome his competitors so easily. 

“ Oh, he’s a local celebrity of Penobscot Bay,” Lew 
replied. “ He lives in Belfast and has a voice like a 
foghorn. They say he goes down to the wharf in Bel- 
fast on calm days and talks across the bay to folks in 
Castine. He has got a terrible chest on him and is 
strong as an ox. But I never heard that he is much 
of a boxer. It’ll be brute force against skill, so play 
your game carefully.” 

My opponent had the advantage of strength, ma- 
turity and weight. When we faced each other I firmly 
resolved to use my agility and skill, and to play a wait- 
ing game. As we thrust our arms out toward each 
other Lew Mills called out to me, quite contrary to his 
advice and against my own thinking, “ Lay into him. 
Pitch! Remember what you did to old man Hinds.” 
That spoiled all my good intentions. In a flash the 
scene of the barn floor swept into my mind, there came 
a streak of red across my vision, and from that moment 
until the finish I was in the power of my demons. 

They say we fought a great battle, that there was 
a continuous mixup, that I was knocked about easily 
whenever I came within range of my opponent’s power- 
ful blows, that I ducked and dodged, feinted and side- 
stepped, blocked his rushes and slid easily beneath his 
great arms. Several times I was knocked down only 
to be back on my feet and at the “Foghorn” fiercer 
than a wildcat. There was never a second when the 
contest lagged and the big crowd that formed the 
human rope enclosing the boxing ring cheered and 


104 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


yelled itself hoarse with indiscriminate admiration. 
And yet I knew little of what was really taking place. 
It was only after my opponent momentarily lowered his 
guard and I landed full and with the weight of my whole 
body, upon the point of his jaw that I began to see 
things clearly. The pride of the Storm King toppled 
backward in a heap. He was on his feet shortly, but 
the contest was never the same thereafter. I had only 
to use my skill, to sidestep his rushes and place my 
blows where I would. My opponent kept doggedly at 
it but he was only inviting a knockout blow from the 
time he first toppled over — for I evened up some of 
the times that he had sent me to the dust before the 
end came. The man was getting up groggily from 
one of my knockdown blows when John Deane stepped 
forward and said to me, ‘‘ That is enough, David. 
You’ve whipped him and there’s no need of punishing 
him further.” 

Without a moment’s hesitation I began to draw off 
the gloves. At this several fellows in the crowd set up 
a protest and called out to finish the bout with a knock- 
out round. 

“ The ‘ Foghorn ’ is the winner,” shouted Decatur 
Beers eagerly. “ The kid has taken off his gloves and 
that’s a sign that he’s a quitter.” He jeered at us 
and was joined by several of his crowd. Another part 
of the crowd shouted, “ Enough ! Deane is right and 
it’s the boy’s fight.” 

But Beers was out for trouble. He persisted in 
his shouts and jeering, finally calling out during a mo- 
mentary pause in the shouting, “ He is a quitter and 
always was ! ” 

With that I rushed across the ring and struck him 
full in the face with my bare fist. The blow would 
have made an impression upon most men but Decatur 


MAKING GOOD 


105 


Beers was too hardened and tough for that. He 
grabbed hold of me, we clinched and were in the be- 
ginning of an interesting pummeling of each other at 
short range when John Deane seized us by our collars 
and sent us spinning apart as if we were toys in his 
hands. I toppled over backwards but rose to my feet 
in time to see ’Cate Beers sprawled face downward a 
dozen feet away where he had been hurled by the giant 
strength of our skipper. Bad blood was beginning to 
get warm in the crowd right off. Beers staggered to 
his feet, wiping the dirt and grime from his eyes. He 
was in an ugly mood. He advanced slowly toward our 
hero, chagrined and discomfited but not beaten. 

“ That’s a dirty dog’s trick ! ” He started to say 
more but checked himself as John Deane stepped to- 
ward him. Then Deane turned upon the crowd, his 
eyes blazing with fury. He stood with shoulders 
squared and head uplifted among them, his jaws set and 
fists clenched. He turned his eyes to meet those of 
the crowd, and there was no man of them who cared 
to try issue with him after seeing him fling Beers and 
me about like toys. 

“ Now if there’s anything else you fellows want the 
crew of the Nimbus to tackle we are ready for you,” 
he cried out defiantly. “ Bring up your men and we’ll 
take them on, only there’s got to be clean sport and 
fair play.” 

It was an awkward moment until several skippers 
stepped forward to assure him that they stood for fair 
play and to state that they approved of his interven- 
tion of the boxing bout. 

‘‘ It belonged to the boy all right, as any fair minded 
man could see, and it was fine for you to put a stop to 
it,” one of them stated. Another of their number told 
him frankly that he had the reputation of being the 


106 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


best athlete in the American fleet and suggested that 
there could be no harm in pitting himself against some 
of the other strong men of the fleet. 

I’m ready for anything that is fair and square, and 
so is my crew,” responded the skipper. “ The crew 
of the Nimbus will do their part to make things inter- 
esting.” It was a challenge to the whole fishing fleet, 
if any cared to consider it as such. Nobody did until 
the wrestling matches were on. Other events followed 
the boxing contest, but the chief interest centered in the 
wrestling which was scheduled for the last event of the 
sports. 

There is little need to give the details of various 
matches that were tried out before all other contestants 
had been outdone in turn by a strapping fellow from 
the Ehen Lewis, Davis by name. He was left to contest 
with John Deane the title of master wrestler among 
half a thousand rugged fishermen, for by common un- 
derstanding the crowd looked to our skipper to enter 
the lists in the last round of the day. 

Again the crowd formed a great ring around the 
contestants, only on this occasion there were few calls 
from the onlookers. Admiration for John Deane was 
evident everywhere; also there was an uneasiness in the 
minds of the men little short of anxiety lest he be 
worsted in a contest which required tremendous physical 
strength to be victor. Davis stepped forward fresh 
from his last conquest, not a little elated to have the 
honor of being matched against the skipper of the 
Nimbus, If he won, the crowd would have little use for 
the Comberton captain; perhaps less for the man who 
should defeat him, for Davis had little to commend him- 
self to popular favor beyond his brute strength. It 
was expected that John Deane would win, yet it looked 
grave for his cause when one surveyed the athletic rep- 
resentative from the Eben Lewis, 


MAKING GOOD 


107 


The contestants approached each other and locked 
arms, each taking a right underhold. At a word from 
the umpire the struggle began. Neither man stirred 
from his tracks after the signal. All that the onlook- 
ers could see was a tightening of the arms about each 
other as they two came to close hugs. I stood where I 
could look into the face of Davis. As the muscles 
tightened I noticed a peculiar look come over his coun- 
tenance, puzzled and grave, then without a word, and 
to the utter astonishment of all, his hold relaxed and 
he sank to the ground at John Deane’s feet. The skip- 
per stood above him unmoved by the strange occurrence. 
The crowd awed by the uncanny deed remained silent, 
awaiting an explanation of what had happened. 

Afterwards George Keene told me that he was 
standing near ’Cate Beers when Davis was trying to 
get to his feet again and overheard him mutter, 
“ Heaven help the fellow that falls into his clutches,” 
referring to Deane. Perhaps he was recalling to mind 
what had happened in the hold of the Harvest Home 
five summers previously. 

“ That’s your round all right, captain,” said Davis, 
when he had got control of himself. ‘‘ But if you don’t 
mind I’d like to try it once more.” 

The two clinched again. At the word from the ref- 
eree John Deane fell to his task in earnest. His 
muscles bulged, his arms tightened about Davis’ body, 
he crushed the other man’s arms into his sides and held 
them as if they were in a vice. Then he gave a mighty 
hug which raised Davis off his feet into the air. The 
victim relaxed his hold, collapsed in his opponent’s arms 
and emitted a noise from his throat that resembled the 
squawking of a barnyard full of fowls. The crowd of 
men were convulsed with the squawk, they tried to imi- 
tate it as the victim fell to the ground, and burst into 
loud peals of laughter. 


108 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


Then the men turned on John Deane. They shouted 
and cheered, they pressed about him, slapped him fa- 
miliarly on the back and followed him to his boat as we 
pulled him away to the Nimbus, Dozens of them came 
aboard to have a closer look at the hero and to re- 
hearse with us the story of the afternoon. After that 
there was nobody denying him the place as leader of 
the mackerel fleet. His pupil had worsted the best 
boxer on the fleet, his rival had been hurled with a 
giant’s strength to the ground, and Davis, the cham- 
pion of the Ehen Lewis, had been crushed like a straw 
man. 

In the evening one of the crew of the Ehen Lewis 
hung around the deck for some time trying to find a 
chance to speak with John Deane in private. Finally 
he summoned courage to say that he would like to 
speak to the skipper. 

“ All right, my man, say what you want. I have 
nothing that I do not share with my men,” replied the 
skipper. 

“ I only wanted to say,” the fellow said in a low 
voice, “ that one of the Comberton fellows in the Har~ 
vest Home asked me to tell you that ’Cate Beers is 
in the mackerel fleet to do you dirty. Look out for 
him all the time.” 

Captain Beers began his work the following morn- 
ing. 


CHAPTER XII 


A SURPRISING CATCH 

W HEN the fog began to lift off the harbor on 
Tuesday morning the American fleet got un- 
der way. Not a breath of air was stirring. 
The sails when hoisted hung limp and lifeless from the 
yards. It was another case of resorting to the ash 
breeze. Slowly schooner after schooner left port in 
tow of their seine-boats. We were among the last 
to leave harbor, not because Lew Mills did not have 
us up as early as the other crews — he had the reputa- 
tion of serving the earliest breakfasts in the fleet — 
but because there appeared to be little virtue of hurry- 
ing when the ash oar was the only means of propulsion. 
The fleet must get outside the harbor, that was a fore- 
gone conclusion when the fog began to lift off the 
water. There is no excuse for a fleet to lie at anchor 
when the seas are smooth and the weather clear; out- 
side, there is always the possibility of getting a breath 
of air to fill the upper sails, at least. 

It was a pretty sight that morning to watch the 
mackerel schooners get under way and, under the pro- 
pelling oars, move slowly and majestically into the 
deeper water. The American fishing schooner is the 
most seaworthy craft of her size afloat. Modern 
schooners are built on lines of easy curves, combining 
both beauty and service in their structure. They carry 
a big spread of canvas, with long, protruding bow- 
sprit and lofty masts. One by one they passed the 
Nimbus and there were moments when I wished our own 
Nimbus was of a more up-to-date build. The idea 
109 


110 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


flashed into the mind for a moment only; it was sup- 
pressed instantly with the thought that no other 
schooner had a commander whom we would think of ex- 
changing for our skipper. Other schooners made a 
prettier picture on the quiet waters or could sail faster 
in a mild breeze; but when John Deane stood at the 
wheel of the Nimbus in a gale of wind, that was picture 
enough to satisfy every man aboard. 

The fleet of schooners strung out in a long line, in 
every case a seine-boat towing its. vessel. Captain 
Deane and four of the crew remained aboard the ship 
while the rest of us pulled at the oars. It was a long, 
wearying pull. Time went on without a change. No 
light breeze of wind met us at the harbor’s mouth. 
The day was turning out to be pleasant and warm, a 
most welcome change from the past few days. Two 
and one-half hours passed with no relief at the oars. 
Suddenly our monotonous peace was disturbed by a 
commotion among the schooners ahead. One of the 
seine-boats stopped rowing and pulled back to her 
schooner. 

“ It’s Eben Lewis. He is going out in his boat,” 
called the lookout from aloft. 

Captain Lewis had discovered a school of fish, good 
news for the whole fleet to hear. In a few minutes he 
began to set his seine. We renewed our efforts at the 
oars. Scarcely ten minutes passed when the skipper 
called to us, ‘‘ Bring in the boat.” The towing hawser 
was cast off^ in a hurry and we pulled back to the 
Nimbus, 

‘‘ Call the cook ! Get into the boat ! Let that 
hawser go now ! Shove off ! ” were the orders from 
Skipper John in rapid succession. 

We pulled away at the oars, speeding the light boat 
forward at a fast clip now that she was freed from 
the heavy schooner. 


A SURPRISING CATCH 


111 


Easy on the oars there ! Pull away again 1 Get 
your seine ready ! ” cried the skipper. 

We were all wondering what was the matter with our 
captain. The sea was glass, there was no ruffle on the 
surface, no sign of a school of mackerel anywhere near 
our schooner or boat. Yet the skipper was acting 
as if he would make a setting of the seine in the midst 
of the empty, calm spaces all about us. We had pulled 
away from the Nimbus five hundred yards. Skipper 
John stood on the seine intently scanning the water 
ahead with Ranny MacDonald at the steering oar. 
While we rested on our oars everybody looked about 
for signs of schooling mackerel. Except from the wake 
of the seine-boat the water reflected a mirror’s surface. 
John Deane gave order to pull ahead on the oars. He 
stepped back and took the oar from Ranny’s hand, then 
called out to the seine-heaver, “ Let go your twine ! ” 

What folly ! Setting the seine in water as calm as 
a millpond, with sixteen men ready to take oath that no 
mackerel were in the vicinity and had not been all the 
morning. It was not our part to demur. This was the 
skipper’s business, the setting of the seine, so we pulled 
heartily, if skeptically, about the calm spot which was 
disturbed only by 1110 whirl from our oars and the 
bights of seine being flung into the innocent sea. 

‘‘ Great humping hemlock ! Look at that ! ” ex- 
claimed one of the “ forward guards,” as we called the 
men who had berths in the forecastle. Mackerel were 
coming to the surface. It was a sight to gladden any 
heart, mackerel schooling within the circle of twine, 
not a few of them but a black, squirming host of them, 
coming to the surface in great numbers, pouring up 
from below, crowding upon each other in desperation 
and making the water rough with their flipping and 
twisting about. How we bent to the oars ! Two and 
one-half hours of rowing before this, but now we were 


112 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


rowing. Quickly we made the circle, set the davits in 
place, passed the purse-line through the blocks and 
seized hold of either end to sway back upon it. 

Then our troubles began. The headrope of the seine 
broke under the heavy strain to which it was subjected 
and had to be caught and tied. We were still in shal- 
low water, scarcely three miles from the shore. The 
seine reached to bottom and dragged over the rocks, 
tearing the footrope and twine. It was because the 
seine reached bottom and the fish could find no exit be- 
low that they had rushed in so great numbers to the 
surface. 

While we were struggling to regain the broken head- 
rope and having difiiculty with the seine dragging and 
tearing on bottom the mackerel were pouring over the 
corks of the seine opposite the boat and escaping into 
the sea. They came to the top in so great a mass that 
the corks and seine were forced under water by the 
sheer weight of their numbers. The skipper hurriedly 
leaped into the dory and rowed around to the place 
where the mackerel were escaping. He tried to get 
hold of the submerged part of the seine but it was too 
deep in the water for him to reach. 

“ A solid wall of mackerel is coming over the seine 
here ! ” he exclaimed ; “ hurry up with that pursing ! ” 

When he found that he could not reach the top of the 
submerged seine the skipper stood in the dory and 
speared the oars down among the escaping mackerel 
to drive them back into the seine. For a time his ef- 
forts were of no avail ; but after hundreds of barrels of 
the fish had escaped into the open water the weight upon 
the seine was reduced enough to allow the corks to rise 
to the surface and shut off further loss from that quar- 
ter. 

Then new places for escape were opened. The seine 
was badly torn by being drawn across the rocks of the 


A SURPRISING CATCH 


113 


bottom. Through these rents the mackerel poured into 
the sea. We pulled away desperately to get the seine 
pursed up and the extra twine dried in before all the 
school should be lost. It was a slow task, however, with 
the difficulties under which we worked, to purse up the 
seine. 

When the schooner had been made fast to the seine 
our first concern was to place the “ pocket ” about it. 
This is a stout net made to place about the seine when 
it contains a large school of mackerel, or is damaged, 
to prevent the seine from tearing open and allowing the 
fish to escape. While we were getting the pocket about 
the seine more mackerel escaped through new rents made 
in the seine. We seemed fated not to save any part of 
the school that morning. The skipper declared that a 
thousand barrels of mackerel must have gone over the 
corks before they came to the surface; nobody knows 
how many barrels of fish escaped through the rents near 
the footrope or again when we were attempting to get 
the pocket about the seine. Had we been able to save 
all the fish in the school there would have been enough 
to load two schooners to the gunwales. 

It was a long time before we were ready to bail the 
mackerel aboard the schooner. Lew Mills took the big 
dipnet, plunged it among the mottled fish and gave the 
signal to go ahead on the toppinglift halyards. Up 
came a barrel of the beauties to be dumped upon deck. 
How good they looked after our long labor in taking 
them ! They flipped about deck, slid over to port, filled 
the waist of the schooner to overflowing and then slipped 
aft across the brake until they were checked by gib- 
keelers which the skipper placed on deck to keep the 
fish in a compact heap. 

All the time the jib was hanging in a heap on the 
bowsprit, the jumbo and foresail were drawn to port, 
the foregafF dropped, and we knew well enough that the 


114* SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


men aboard the other schooners were saying, The 
lucky Nimbus has got another load of them.” 

With the last dipnetful of mackerel over the rail the 
cook disappeared into the forecastle to prepare dinner. 
We had time to look about us a little while we were 
hoisting the headsails into place. The mackerel were 
rounded on deck from rail to rail, a hundred and fifty 
barrels strong. 

‘‘ That’s a pretty fine morning’s work anyway,” said 
Clint Blunt after we had got the gib-keelers set up and 
begun the work of dressing down the catch. “ What I 
would like to know is how the skipper knew there was 
mackerel down there Nobody else saw a sign of fish 
and there wasn’t so much as a ripple on the surface.” 

The rest of us were equally puzzled. We could ex- 
plain the mystery only by assuming that the skipper 
detected a difference in the color of the water made by 
the presence of a large body of mackerel below tbe sur- 
face. It was indeed a surprising catch; but not so 
great a surprise as awaited us. 

Further comment on the subject was cut short by 
one of the men pointing ahead of the Nimbus. By this 
time the fleet had got a long way ahead of us in a light 
puff of wind, leaving the schooner quite alone. Nearer 
to us, not half a mile away, a steam yacht was headed 
toward the Nimbus. As she came nearer weonade out 
the ensign of Great Britain flying at the masthead, laz- 
ily but ominously. 

‘‘ It’s the Canadian revenue cutter,” said Clint. 
“ Now we are in for it.” 

When the cutter got near us a boat was lowered 
from her side and pulled to the Nimbus. We caught 
the painter as it was thrown over the rail. An officer 
in uniform stepped on deck. He glanced at the great 
heaps of mackerel about him before inquring, “ Who 
is the commander here.^ ” 


A SURPRISING CATCH 


115 


Skipper John acknowledged his office with a salute 
and a respectful, “ Here, sir.” 

The officer returned the salute before replying, 
“ Captain, it is my painful duty to seize your schooner 
and cargo for fishing within the three-mile limit, in vio- 
lation of the treaty rights of the Canadian government. 
Kindly bring me the ship’s papers ! ” 


CHAPTER XIII 


BILL SPURLING’s MUTINY 

W E would not have been more surprised aboard 
the ship had a whale swallowed the Nimbus, 
cargo, crew and all. We looked at each 
other in blank amazement, then at the skipper. It 
meant ruin for him, ruin for Captain Ober, owner of 
the schooner, ruin to our summer’s work. The Nimbus 
was really swallowed up with her equipment and stores 
and cargo. This included the fine deck of mackerel we 
had just succeeded in getting aboard the schooner after 
five hours of discouraging labor. Looked at from our 
point of view the capture of the Nimbus was trifling, an 
inconvenience of a few weeks and a loss of only half a 
hundred dollars each. But for the skipper it was a 
very serious business. He would need to pay rental on 
the schooner five months longer with the vessel in the 
hands of the Canadian government. He was ruined 
almost before he had a chance to make a good start. 

“ Sir, your seizure is illegal,” he said to the officer 
when he had recovered somewhat from the shock. 
‘‘ Our catch was made outside the three-mile limit. I’m 
positive of that because my crew towed the schooner 
for two and a half hours before we set the seine.” 

We capture you at this spot, which is within the 
three-mile limit,” replied the officer. “ You cannot 
deny that you have just finished getting your mackerel 
on deck, can you ^ ” 

“ No, sir. We have just finished bailing in the fish. 
116 


BILL SPURLING’S MUTINY 


117 


But we have been in the seine-boat and busy bailing 
the fish fully two hours. Possibly the tide has carried 
us away from the place where we took the fish. I have 
not noticed how we have been drifting; we could not 
have prevented drifting had we tried. We had no in- 
tention to trespass within Canadian waters and we did 
not trespass.” 

“ My instructions make no mention of intentions. We 
take as lawful prizes any fishing craft found trespassing 
within the three-mile limit. To find your schooner here, 
just finishing bailing in a load of mackerel, is circum- 
stantial evidence which the admiralty court would ac- 
cept in a decision to hold your schooner, its cargo and 
equipment.” 

“ But I protest that the seizure is illegal,” declared 
Skipper John. 

“ It will be proper for you to enter your protest in 
due form before the court at Halifax, captain. Your 
vessel will have to accompany me to Halifax.” 

“ What about this deckload of mackerel.^” the skip- 
per asked, pointing to the fish. 

“ The fish are seized along with the schooner. The 
law specifies that ship, cargo and equipment become the 
property of her Majesty’s government.” 

Bill Spurling snorted outright at this. “ Huh ! Her 
Majesty’s nothing; that’s all rot, Mr. OflScer. How 
much do you and your crew get out of this capture? 
Tell me that ? ” 

The officer glanced at Bill in disgust. He was not 
used to having fishermen question him on points of the 
law or to interfere in a matter that was none of their 
business. 

‘‘ Captain,” he said, ‘‘ my business is with you. 
Please understand that ship, cargo and equipment are 
now in the hands of the Canadian government. We 
need not parley longer. Get the schooner in sailing 


118 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


trim to accompany me to Halifax. I will send an 
officer and prize crew aboard to remain on the schooner 
until we reach Halifax.” 

The skipper turned to us. We were standing about 
the deck where we could in the midst of the mackerel, 
eagerly taking in the conversation. 

“ It looks as if we would have to go to Halifax, men, 
and get satisfaction there. We shall have little diffi- 
culty in convincing the admiralty court that the Nimbus 
was outside the three-mile limit when the fish were 
taken.” 

“ We’ll all swear to that, skipper,” spoke up George 
Keene. “ I’ve sailed these waters for thirty years and 
know pretty well whether we are three or five miles off 
shore.” 

“ Well, set the outer jib and topsails, men. Let’s 
get to Halifax as soon as possible and get this matter 
fixed right.” 

The crew turned slowly to obey the skipper’s orders. 
We did not care much what we did so long as we did 
something. It was a blue set of men who picked their 
way forward through the heaps of mackerel, now no 
longer ours, to set the sails. Before we had got far 
Bill Spurling who was standing on the forehatch — a 
kind of island amid a sea of mackerel — turned to 
Skipper John and cried out loud enough for every man 
to hear, “ Skipper, I don’t turn my hand over to set 
one of them darn’d sails ! ” 

Skipper John was touched to the quick by Bill’s open 
defiance to his orders. To lose the schooner was a 
matter of dollars and cents, to lose the respect of his 
men was a bitter disappointment to John Deane. It 
touched him personally, not financially. It showed Bill 
to be good fellow in fair weather, but an ingrate when 
stormy weather appeared. 

“ Bill, what is the matter ? ” the skipper inquired. 


BILL SPURLING’S MUTINY 


119 


“ Why do you stand up like a man when everything goes 
well and play the boy as soon as we get into trouble? ” 

“ Skipper, don’t you take one thing from me as being 
against you. I’ll stand by you till hell cracks and the 
sulphur runs all over Nova Scotia, if necessary. But 
this is none of our affair now, skipper. Are you in com- 
mand of the Nimbus? ” 

This was a new turn to the seizure that the skipper 
had not foreseen but the right of which he recognized 
once it was called to his attention by Bill. 

“ You’re right. Bill. I am no longer in command of 
the Nimbus. You men have no need to obey me longer. 
But I thought — ” 

At this point the skipper was interrupted by the 
revenue officer. ‘‘ Excuse, me, captain. The man is 
right. You are no longer in command of the schooner. 
But I am and I order your men to set the jibs and top- 
sails.” 

The man’s intentions were better than his tact. If 
one man was in mutiny before this, now seventeen were. 
Bill became so angry at the officer’s words that he could 
make no reply for a moment. He spat spitefully at the 
mackerel, and his watery eye poured forth a libation of 
patriotic liquid down his left cheek that made Bill ap- 
pear ludicrous in his anger. When he recovered his 
self-control he fairly roared back his reply to the offi- 
cer, for BiU had a voice that could roar upon occasion ; 
he had a courage that no officer’s uniform could deter 
and he was possessed of a very practical knowledge of 
maritime law and practice. 

“ You lobster-faced Blue Nose ! ” Bill roared. You 
can order till your face is as red as your flag and that’s 
all the good it will do. Don’t you suppose we fish- 
ermen have got rights? Don’t you suppose we know 
what our rights are? Take this old tub if you want 
to, and the boats and sails and gurry-tubs and this deck 


120 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE 'NIMBUS 


of fish, too. Take them and tow them right up along- 
side of the Queen’s throne, for all of me. But don’t 
you boss me, nor order me, nor do anything to me ex- 
cept to give me safe conduct to the nearest American 
consul. You can seize a ship illegally but you can’t 
seize an American fisherman illegally, or in any other 
way. I’m an American fisherman and, by the great 
horned spoon, the first Blue Nose that lays hand on 
Bill Spurling has to settle with his friend Uncle Samuel, 
at Washington.” 

“ Hurrah for you. Bill ! ” shouted Lew Parish, stirred 
to a pitch of emotion by Bill’s harangue. The effect of 
Bill’s speech was electrical. It gave encouragement to 
the crew at a moment of depression, it put a new light 
in J ohn Deane’s eyes, and showed the oiSScer clearly that 
he had exceeded his authority. The crew followed Lew 
Parish’s example and gave the speaker a hearty cheer at 
the close of his retort. The officer turned to John 
Deane. 

“ It would be unfortunate for us to have trouble over 
this affair, sir. I will put a prize crew aboard the 
schooner but we are short handed. If some of your men 
will assist in handling the schooner we shall be glad to 
pay them for their services.” 

“ That sounds right,” the skipper answered. “ My 
men are disappointed this morning. They lose a good 
catch of fish as well as a summer’s work in the fishery. 
That is enough to irritate any man. But may I in- 
quire what you expect to do with these mackerel.^ ” 

The officer hesitated before making a reply. He had 
not thought about the mackerel, or that they needed 
immediate attention. 

‘‘ I suppose they should be saved. What do you 
think they are worth ? ” 

“ About fifteen hundred dollars in Halifax, fuUy one- 


BILL SPURLING’S MUTINY 1^1 

fifth the value of the schooner herself,” replied Skipper 
John. 

“ Oh, so much as that ? Why, by aU means have 
them saved. Set the crew at work dressing them at 
once.” 

The irrepressible sea-lawyer could restrain himself no 
longer. He still maintained his independent station and 
attitude. When the officer of the cutter suggested that 
our crew attend to the dressing of the fish it was a 
presumption that Bill would not brook. 

“ Yes, I see just about eighteen of us fellows splitting 
and gibbing and plowing a hundred and fifty odd barrels 
of mackerel out of love for you fellows,” Bill said. 
“Where do we come in.'^ Five hours of work such as 
your lily whites haven’t done in forty years, if I am 
any judge of hands, five hours of work to catch the 
fish and another ten hours to dress them properly. Bill 
Spurling’s hands are just itching to split mackerel un- 
der those conditions. What do you say, men.^ Work 
our fingers to the bone for a lot of men that take our 
schooner and mackerel away from us illegally Well, 
I guess not this trip, mister. You don’t know Ameri- 
can fishermen if you think they are slaves to anybody.” 

“ What are the fish worth to you, sir.^ ” John Deane 
inquired of the officer. 

“ That is a detail I am not interested in. My busi- 
ness is to do my duty as an officer, not as a fisher- 
man.” 

“ Just as you say. It’s nothing to us now. In six 
hours the mackerel won’t be worth dumping overboard 
if they remain here on deck. Dress them and it is half 
of fifteen hundred dollars to be shared by you and 
your crew.” 

The officer made a rapid calculation before replying. 
The results of his mental arithmetic were pleasing to 


1^2 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


him, especially as officers share more than their crew. 

“Why, of course the mackerel should be saved. We 
are willing to allow seamen’s wages to your crew for 
dressing them.” 

Bill took it upon himself to be our spokesman. 
“We’ll do the job all right, skipper, but no seamen’s 
wages. This is expert work. What kind of a mess 
would these men make of the job.?^ They wouldn’t 
finish it until some time next August. I think five dol- 
lars a man, with double share to the skipper as usual, 
is a fair rate for the job. How does it strike you fel- 
lows ? ” 

Bill turned to us and we nodded assent. Five dol- 
lars was better than loafing around ship for the re- 
mainder of the day; besides, it was more than the 
average man of the fleet would earn that day. The 
officer was not so easily convinced. He so far forgot 
his dignity as to address Bill himself. 

“ Nothing more or less than highway robbery. You 
men never earned five dollars a day in your life. What 
is the sense of claiming expert wages in the matter of 
dressing a deck load of mackerel.'^ ” 

“ Suit yourself, sir,” answered Skipper John. “ I 
figure that you and your crew will divide about .eight 
hundred dollars among you if you get the fish to Hali- 
fax in good condition. Throw eight hundred dollars 
overboard if you wish to, or pay us a hundred and save 
seven hundred for yourselves. Is that sense ” 

“ I agree to the conditions, captain,” replied the offi- 
cer, glad to have somebody do his figuring for him and 
reluctant to allow the fish to spoil. 

“When will the pay be forthcoming for the job.?” 
inquired the skipper, anxious to seal the bargain prop- 
erly. 

“ As soon as the fish are dressed. I don’t usually 
pay for a thing until I get it,” the other responded. 


BILL SPURLING’S MUTINY 


ns 

A young officer accompanied by four sailors came 
aboard to direct the sailing of the schooner but they 
did not interfere with the work in which we were en- 
gaged. There was little conversation among the crew 
for the remainder of the day. From time to time one 
of our crew would slam an unoffending mackerel into 
the barrel with a bang that never would have been 
tolerated had we been dressing the fish for ourselves. 
Then a bystander would remark, in mock reproach at 
his shipmate, “ Careful, there, boy ! Don’t harm the 
gentleman’s fish ! ” 

Our work was only half completed when the cook sum- 
moned us to supper at three in the afternoon. I was 
ready to resign my job, for my hands were getting sore 
and numb with the work of gibbing the mackerel. We 
kept on with the job we had begun, of course, and when 
darkness came on set up the torches about deck to give 
us light to do the work. The men were not slow to see 
the ludicrous side of the predicament in which we were 
placed. John Cameron, the bight-passer, a canny 
Scotsman from the Port Hood region, gave a touch of 
Scotch humor to the situation. After the torches had 
been lighted and we could see other schooners a dozen 
miles to the eastward with torches lighted, Cameron 
remarked with a touch of profanity and bitterness 
quite foreign to his ordinary self, “ Those fellows over 
aboard the other schooners are saying to each other, 

‘ What a helluva big school of fish the Nimbus has got. 
They’re the lucky dogs of the fleet.’ ” 

But Cameron did not know at that time, nor any- 
body else aboard the Nimbus, that some of the Ameri- 
can fishermen in the fleet to the eastward thought dif- 
ferently about the kind of luck we were having. 

It was mid-forenoon of the next day before the offi- 
cer of the cutter boarded the Nimbus again. After he 
and the skipper had exchanged greetings Skipper John 


lU SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


called his attention to the mackerel which were packed 
about the deck from windlass to the wheel house, one 
hundred and sixtj-five water-barrels in all. 

“ There are your fish, sir, all dressed and soaking out 
the blood, one hundred and sixty-five barrels of them. 
They should make a hundred and fifty headed barrels. 
It would be convenient to receive the men’s pay at this 
time.” 

The officer looked sharply at John Deane, then at the 
barrels of mackerel, before replying. 

“ I may be green, sir, but I know enough of the 
mackerel business to tell when they are properly 
dressed. The fish have to be salted down, headed up 
and stowed away in the hold of the schooner before your 
crew can expect pay for the job.” 

On the moment we were incensed at the officer. John 
Deane was deeply stirred, too, but he made an effort 
to control himself. He spoke carefully when he re- 
plied, although one could see that he held himself in 
check with great restraint. He had assured us of our 
pay; the officer’s refusal to pay us until further work 
was done placed him in a bad light. 

“ The terms of agreement were that you would pay 
us one hundred dollars for dressing the fish. There 
they are, dressed good enough for any crew. Noth- 
ing was said about further work upon the fish, or stow- 
ing them in the hold, or hoisting them on the wharf at 
Halifax or finding a market for them after we reached 
port. You will oblige me by payment of the money.” 

“ And I will oblige myself by withholding the pay 
until the fish are in the condition I expect them to be,” 
replied the officer with no little show of being irritated. 

“ Very well, sir. I thought a Britisher’s word was as 
good as his bond. Canadian fishermen whom I have 
met are of a different type from you. Come here, Bill.” 

As he spoke, John Deane stepped toward the barrels 


BILL SPURLING’S MUTINY 


125 


of mackerel that were stowed against the rail. He and 
Bill Spurling stooped down, grasped a barrel of mack- 
erel by the chine and middle and before the astonished 
officer could interpose or say a word they threw the 
barrel of fish overboard. They seized another barrel, 
which was hurled after the first, sinking into the waves 
with a big splash and leaving a wake of white bubbles 
as it quickly sank from sight. A third barrel was half 
way over the rail before the officer could speak. 

‘‘Halt! Hold up there! What are you doing 
Those fish belong to the Canadian government. I order 
you to leave them alone ! ” He was fairly choking with 
rage and astonishment at John Deane’s action. 

The skipper paused with the barrel tilting on the rail. 
“ These fish were caught outside the three-mile limit,” 
he said. “ They were dressed by my crew in an agree- 
ment with you. When you refuse to fulfill your part of 
the agreement you forfeit your right to the dressed 
mackerel. There are not men enough aboard your cut- 
ter to prevent us from dumping the cargo into the 
ocean. And that’s just what we are going to do.” 

When John Deane was thoroughly aroused he spoke 
his words sharply and the flash of his eye spoke volumes 
more than the words. He felt that he was in the right, 
he knew that he had the situation in his hands. When 
he had finished speaking he and Bill heaved the third 
barrel overboard, this time a long way from the ship’s 
side. I have often wondered just how far he could have 
thrown the officer at that moment had the occasion al- 
lowed him a trial. 

At the skipper’s words we all sprang to the rail. In 
another moment barrels of mackerel were being dumped 
overboard from every quarter of the schooner. The 
spirit of the Boston Tea Party was rife aboard the 
Nimbus, though five of the crew were Canadians. The 
officer gave a hurried look about the deck. On all sides 


126 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


he saw barrels of mackerel disappearing over the rail 
and eighteen men in pairs doing the job with alacrity 
and ease. He raised both hands in protest and shouted. 

“Hold upl ril pay the wages now. Don’t waste 
more fish.” 

He drew a bill-book from an inner pocket and counted 
a hundred dollars into John Deane’s hand. 

“ Thank you, officer,” said our captain. “ Now I 
think the men will attend to the salting and heading of 
the mackerel without further trouble. Am I right, 
men ? ” 

“ Right you are, skipper,” answered George Keene. 
“ All we ask is fair play and full pay.” He put his 
words into action by taking his adz from the fife-rail 
and began to head up the barrels. 

Because of light winds we had made little headway 
throughout the night. With the coming of morning a 
breeze set in from the eastward, the forerunner of a 
northeast gale if we were judges of the weather. By 
mid-afternoon the breeze had freshened to a respectable 
gale, accompanied by a driving rainstorm. Our little 
craft tacked to and fro in its laborious progress in 
beating to windward. All the time the cutter kept 
close watch over the schooner and her crew. 

The last stretch into Halifax harbor was made on 
the starboard tack with our lee rail awash. Darkness 
was settling upon the waters when we entered Halifax 
harbor a disconsolate crew indeed, defeated of the high 
hopes we had had of making a record trip to market. 
The cold, drenching rain added discomfort to the dis- 
grace that we felt in entering a foreign port as pris- 
oners — so far as schooner and equipment and cargo 
were concerned — of a Canadian revenue cutter. 

All the afternoon I had felt strange sensations run- 
ning up and down my back. As the peculiar sensations 
darted about and pricked me I realized that the little 


BILL SPURLING’S MUTINY 


127 


demons of my youth were astir within me seeking an op- 
portunity to find expression. I was in no mood to re- 
pel their advances. I could easily have set fire to 
schooner and cargo that day but maturer reflection 
suggested that it would be wiser to attempt to save 
property than destroy it. Before we entered the har- 
bor I had a long talk with Lew Mills and Bill Spurling 
up forward by the windlass. Later I managed to get a 
few words with the skipper without arousing suspicion 
that anything unusual was on foot. Bill and George 
Keene, the veteran seamen of our crew, kept their eyes 
open as the schooner entered the harbor under command 
of the prize crew; they had been familiar with Halifax 
harbor for many years but took pains to refresh their 
memories as we went along. There was little cause for 
comment when Skipper John gave orders for the port 
anchor to be made ready for mooring the schooner. 
When the command came to anchor, it was the port 
anchor that was cast from the bow, the one fitted with 
a hawser instead of chain. As the port anchor rushed 
into the water my demons gave evidence of exultant re- 
lief. 

John Deane called his crew about him and said, 
“You men are no longer bound to help about the 
schooner. Pack up your duds to-night; in the morn- 
ing we’ll go ashore to the American consul. I’m go- 
ing ashore to see him now. While I am away, take 
orders from Bill Spurling.” 


CHAPTER XIV 


THE ESCAPE 

S EVERAL conditions favored our plan to seize the 
schooner and make our escape. The night was 
intensely dark. The wind and storm were mak- 
ing a noise which would prevent easy communication 
between the cutter and the schooner, although the Beetle 
was anchored scarcely three hundred feet away. It 
would seem the height of folly for any one to attempt 
to take the schooner out of Halifax harbor on such a 
night; yet we decided it would be better to try, even 
though we should fail, than not to take the risk, since 
we had everything to gain and nothing to lose. 

Skipper John had gone ashore with the officer of 
the cutter. The wildest imagination would not picture 
a crew making off with the schooner and leaving their 
captain ashore in the hands of the enemy. Yet we re- 
lied upon this bit of strategy more than anything else 
to allay any suspicions that an attempt would be made 
to capture the schooner. Skipper John was only too 
willing to do his part in the plan, provided the schooner 
might be rescued from her captors. 

The mooring of the Nimbus with the port anchor, 
which had hemp cable instead of chain, was part of the 
strategy already accomplished. It remained for us to 
keep some of the larger sails on the schooner, if pos- 
sible, until we were ready to cut the cable and make a 
quick escape. That detail I had left to Bill Spurling’s 
diplomacy. 

When Captain Deane disappeared in the darkness 
128 


THE ESCAPE 


129 


for the shore Bill told the men they might go below 
as there was no other work for them to do. This left 
the furling of all the sails to the prize crew of four 
men and an officer. Bill knew well enough that they 
could not do the work unassisted by the crew of the 
Nimbus, The officer gave orders for the jib and jumbo 
to be taken in first. His men moved forward in the 
darkness and undertook to carry out his commands. 
But they were unfamiliar with the rigging of the 
schooner. In the darkness they could not distinguish 
halyard from down-haul or tell where to find the differ- 
ent ropes. They got helplessly tangled up, fell over 
the cable, ran against the windlass, loosened the top- 
sail halyard but failed to find the ropes they were look- 
ing for. They returned after a time to inform the 
officer that they needed a torch to find the ropes. The 
officer, also helpless aboard the schooner, turned to Bill 
to inquire where a torch or lantern might be found. 

“ Deliver me, officer. I couldn’t lay my hand on a 
torch if it was cut off at the elbow,” Bill replied with 
very evident truthfulness. “ What do they want of 
torches anyway.? ” 

“ They say they cannot find the ropes in the dark. 
Your crew are unwilling to help us and my men are 
strangers to the rigging.” 

“ What do you want to take in the sails for now, 
anyway ? ” inquired Bill. “ What’s the use of rolling 
up a big wad of water, the canvas is soaked with rain ? ” 

‘‘ We cannot ride at anchor with all the lower sails 
set, can we.? ” the officer replied, half in explanation of 
his order and partly to inquire what Bill would do 
under the circumstances. 

“ I suppose not,” Bill replied. “We are so used to 
keeping all sails on that it doesn’t seem seamen-like to 
furl them as soon as we get into port. Perhaps it would 
be all right to furl the headsails, the schooner would 


130 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


ride at anchor better. If I was doing the job I’d let 
the foresail and mainsail hang until morning. They’ll 
steady the schooner in the storm. Besides you could 
never roll up the mainsail with all that water in it.” 

“ I think we will furl the headsails, anyway,” the 
officer said. “ We can attend to the larger sails when 
the commander comes aboard again.” 

“ You could do worse than that, my way of think- 
ing, officer,” answered Bill. “ It’s a big job for four 
men to handle that mainsail in the dark and heavy as 
lead. I guess we can lend a hand up forward, can’t 
we, boys ^ ” Bill inquired of a few of us who were on 
deck. 

We agreed to the suggestion, for it was helping out 
our plans to have Bill take charge of the situation. 
Down came the jib and jumbo. Bill handled the gas- 
kets in diplomatic fashion. Instead of winding them 
around and around the sails to keep them from flying 
about in the gale he made a pretense at passing the 
gaskets about the sails and fastened the end of the ropes 
with a knot that could be loosened quickly when the 
time for action should come. 

“Better trim the big sails aft, hadn’t we, officer.?” 
inquired Bill solicitously when the forward sails had 
been cared for. The officer assented. We pulled in the 
sheets and made them secure, without using either the 
boom-tackles or boom-crotch for the work. With the 
headsails down the schooner rode easily at anchor, sat- 
isfactorily enough to ease the mind of the officer for the 
time being at least. 

When the sails had been attended to the watch was 
set, two men in each watch for four hours on and four 
hours off* for the night. At Clint’s invitation the officer 
of the day disappeared in the cabin after he had taken 
a last look around to see that everything had been 
made snug for the night. The other two men whose 


THE ESCAPE 


131 


watch would not come for four hours found a retreat 
from the storm in the forecastle. 

For the time Bill, Lew Mills and I remained near the 
mainhatch maturing our plans. There was need of 
great haste if we were to escape from the harbor before 
the commander of the cutter should return from the 
shore. His first order would be to furl the lower sails 
and that would put an end to our schemes. We had 
taken several of the crew into our secret, — Lee Parish, 
Clint, George Keene, who with Bill would have to navi- 
gate the schooner out of the harbor, John Cameron and 
Ranny MacDonald. Each man had been assigned a 
part to do. Bill and George to navigate the schooner, 
Clint to entertain the officer — Clint was a native of 
Cape Negro and always had a fund of quaint stories 
on tap — the other four men were to handle the two 
watchmen. It was my part to keep the affair run- 
ning smoothly and give the word when to overpower the 
watchman and to cut the cable. A critical seaman 
might have inquired why we needed the binnacle light 
burning after the schooner was riding at anchor. Yet 
this was a detail that had been foreseen and Clint, 
furthermore, was instructed to extinguish the cabin 
lamp when we should get under way. 

It was no occasion for suspicion when Bill Spurling 
went up forward shortly to see how the cable was wear- 
ing. He spoke to the forward watch as he went by him 
“ wondering why the schooner pulled so hard at her 
anchor.” He busied himself for a few minutes with a 
pretended inspection at the hawse-pipe before calling 
out to me, “ Bring up some seizings from the forecastle. 
Pitchfork, the hawser is wearing a little in the pipe.” 

I secured a good bunch of seizings which I carried to 
Bill. In the bundle were about ten fathoms of three- 
ply rope, and a big knife from the cook’s pantry shelf. 
We passed one end of the rope over the rail, drew it 


132 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


through the hawse-hole and then Bill fastened it se- 
curely to the cable. On the other end of the rope I 
made one of the seine buoys fast which I had smuggled 
up forward as soon as darkness had set in. It was my 
intention to buoy the anchor when we should cut the 
cable. With characteristic down-east thrift I was un- 
willing that the anchor and cable should both go to 
bottom and be lost ; if the anchor was buoyed we might 
possibly recover it at some future time. The job did 
not take long. When we went back we reassured the 
watch that the cable would not chafe through during 
the night. 

I went below into the forecastle for a few minutes. 
There the usual game of cards was going on, the strang- 
ers having been invited to take a hand. With a glance 
about to reassure me that everything was in readiness 
in that quarter I left for the cabin. 

There I found Clint entertaining the officer. Two 
others of our crew were seated on the locker-seat listen- 
ing to Clint’s yarn, a droll account of how he had once 
saved the S. R, Lane from going ashore in the Bay of 
Fundy. 

“ It was thick-o-fog,” Clint was telling the officer, 
“and my watch forward. We was joggin’ back and 
forth, back and forth like and I had my ears pricked 
up pretty sharp for a foghorn or bell-buoy. Pretty 
soon, ye know, I got a whiff of somethin’ that smelt 
familiar. Whiff, whiff, it came through the fog. It 
kept cornin’ stronger and stronger. O, me-o-my, I 
thought, what is that.^^ It smells jest like Cape Nigger 
but I can’t make it out. I was a-sniffing with my old 
bugle all the time — whiff, whiff. Then all of a sud- 
den it came over me like a shock. ‘ It’s a barnyard ! ’ 
You see we had got right in under the shore and the 
wind took some of that barnyard right out to sea for me 
to smell of. I grabbed the lead and threw it over by 


THE ESCAPE 


13S 


the fore-rigging. One fathom of clear water the Lane 
was going in then. ‘ Keep her off ! I smell a barn- 
yard!’ I yelled again. We jest missed piling up on 
the beach that time and would have if it hadn’t been 
for my Cape Nigger bugle.” 

I entered the cabin just as Clint was concluding his 
story, a classic of his that we had heard so many times 
we could sometimes imagine that we, too, smelled the 
breeze that had saved the schooner. 

‘‘How’s the weather outside. Pitchfork?” Clint in- 
quired of me. 

“ Pretty wet and nasty. Glad to be in a good har- 
bor where we can get one night’s rest in comfort,” I 
answered. 

“ Excuse me, mister,” said the officer, addressing 
Clint, “ but what did you call your companion? ” 

“ Oh, he’s Pitchfork,” Clint said, laughing and slap- 
ping his leg. “ Don’t suppose you ever heard his his- 
tory but it’s killin’. You see it was this way. When 
he was — ” 

“ See here, Clint,” I interrupted, pretending to be 
offended at his familiarity, “ you’d better stick to your 
barnyard instead of raking me over the coals. If 
I’ve got to listen to your rubbish I’ll go back to the 
forecastle. Excuse me, officer,” I said, turning to him, 
“ perhaps it will be more comfortable if I drew the com- 
panionway slide over and shut out the rain.” 

“ Certainly, indeed. Thank you, but don’t hurry 
away,” he replied, not a little disturbed for fear his 
question had wounded my feelings. When I reached 
deck I pulled the slide over the companionway and 
fastened the hasp in place with a twenty-penny nail. 
Bill met me at the house and whispered that the skipper 
was alongside in the dory. The time for action had 
come. I went forward and threw a pair of wet oil 
clothes into the forecastle, as near as I could where the 


134 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


men were seated at the table playing cards. They fell 
with a swish against somebody and caused some com- 
motion, just as was expected by a few. 

Shortly George Keene poked his head out of the 
forecastle looking for “ that fresh guy who was throw- 
ing wet oil clothes onto folks.” He was followed by 
Ranny MacDonald. Lew and Bill were already on 
deck, each talking with one of the watch. I slunk away 
up forward past the watch as if bent on escaping from 
my pursuers. The Nimbus was pulling easily at the 
anchor, for there was quite a bit of cable out. The 
buoy was already afloat at the bow. I cast off the 
small rope, then slashed the cable in two with the 
cook’s sharp knife as the schooner was settling into the 
wave. The deed was done, the schooner was adrift. 

“ How about setting a harbor light in the rigging.?* ” I 
called out, loud enough to attract the attention of both 
watches. 

That was the signal agreed upon for the watches to 
be seized. A big towel was thrown about the head of 
the forward watch and he was pulled backward off his 
feet. Although he was secured in a moment the scuffle 
that ensued attracted the attention of the other watch 
on the quarter deck. Before he could go far he, too, 
was seized; but before his mouth could be stopped he 
had called lustily for help a couple of times. His 
shouts were heard in the cabin and forecastle. The 
officer in the cabin tried to get the slide open to come 
on deck. After struggling with it for a time he turned 
back just in time to see Clint seize the lamp and ex- 
tinguish it. They were left in the semi-darkness of the 
cabin. 

When the scuffling was heard in the forecastle Lee 
Parish rose from his seat on the locker just back of 
one of the seamen. He held an iron belaying pin in his 


THE ESCAPE 


1B5 


hand. Ranny MacDonald towered above the other fel- 
low with a significant statue-of-liberty pose. 

“ Men,” Lee began, talking to our crew, “ there is 
work for you on deck. Get out quick and keep still 
when you get there. We’re going to take the Nimbus 
out of the harbor. Keep an eye out for what Bill and 
Pitchfork are doing. You two fellows,” he continued, 
turning to the seamen, “ will stay down here. No harm 
will come to you, only don’t try to come on deck. It 
won’t be healthy for you up there. This belaying-pin 
is warranted cast iron and your heads are not.” 

Our men rushed from the forecastle and the two deck 
watches were put below with their companions. Al- 
ready the Nimbus was drifting to leeward. 

“ Quick, men,” I said in a low tone as they came out 
of the forecastle, “ get these headsails on the schooner. 
Some of you go aft and ease off the sheets. Lend a 
hand to Bill and George if they need help.” 

We were drifting past the cutter now, not above fifty 
yards away. The cry of the watch had aroused com- 
ment aboard the Beetle, One of the watches aboard 
the cutter stepped to the rail and called out, “ On board 
the schooner! What’s the trouble?” 

I answered promptly but with deliberation that be- 
fitted the occasion. “ Our cable has parted and we are 
going to take new moorings under your lee. We’ll use 
the chain this time. All right in a moment.” 

We drifted past the cutter without arousing further 
suspicion. When the crew began to set the jib and 
jumbo the watch was again apprehensive that all was 
not right aboard the Nimbus. 

‘‘ On board the schooner I Why don’t you anchor ? 
That is a good anchorage where you are.” It sounded 
like an officer’s voice this time ; probably the watch had 
reported to his superior. 


136 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


“ Aye, aye, sir ! ” I shouted back. Then to our men 
in a loud tone, “ Get that anchor ready! ” To Ranny 
and Lee I said in an undertone, ‘‘ Get one of those bar- 
rels of fish on the rail ready to go overboard.” 

“ Have you got the anchor ready ? ” I inquired again 
in my best stentorian tones. 

“ Aye, aye, sir 1 ” came from Ranny loud enough to 
be heard on board the Beetle. 

“ Let go the anchor ! ” I shouted, and the splash of 
the barrel of mackerel into Halifax harbor was realistic 
enough to deceive the most expert seaman that dark 
night. 

“ All right now, sir 1 ” I shouted back to the officer 
aboard the cutter, inwardly exulting that a barrel of 
mackerel could serve so good a purpose as anchoring a 
schooner in a gale of wind. 

“ Set your harbor light 1 Ho I On board the 
schooner, set your harbor light I ” called the other in a 
loud, prolonged tone. 

“ Aye, aye, sir 1 ” I responded from the Nimbus. 
But we never carried out his command. 

The Nimbus was now headed for the harbor’s mouth, 
all four lower sails drawing. The jib and jumbo had 
not been hoisted to draw their best but we had not the 
time to bring the schooner into the wind to set them 
up better. Time was too precious for that. We sped 
out into the darkness toward the ocean. Bill Spurling 
at the wheel was holding the schooner to the first lap of 
the course which he had been careful to observe when 
we entered the harbor. He needed little coaching, for 
he had sailed in and out of the Nova Scotia harbors 
until he knew them better than most skippers did. 

Scarcely five minutes had been consumed in getting 
the Nimbus under way. A slash of the knife, and 
hoisting the anchor had been done away with; the two 
big lower sails were drawing in the wind as soon as the 


THE ESCAPE 


137 


schooner’s bow was released from the anchor ; the other 
forward sails had been sent up in a jiffy by the eager 
crew. Two minutes after my last call to the officer we 
were swallowed up in the blackness of the harbor. For 
some time we had heard the officer calling from the 
Beetle, “ On board the schooner ! Ho ! on board the 
schooner ! ” until the cry was lost in the wrack of the 
gale. Through the rain we caught glimpses of lights 
passing aboard the cutter. Men of the keenest hearing 
declared they heard the chain being hoisted through the 
hawse-pipe. I was not so sure of this because some- 
times the imagination paints as a reality only what is a 
mental anticipation. All doubt was removed from my 
mind a few minutes later when a bright flash appeared 
from the direction of the cutter and the boom of a 
cannon shot roared into the night. 

“ They have discovered our escape,” said Bill, ‘‘ and 
are giving the alarm. It will be a pretty race in the 
dark. They’ll have to do some pretty fine shooting to 
hit us and miss their own men aboard at the same time.” 

Shortly a second flash was seen, followed by the 
booming of cannon. 


CHAPTER XV 


OUTLAWS OF THE SEA 

J OHN DEANE had not accompanied the officer of 
the cutter ashore in vain. When the two men 
reached the wharf they separated, the commander 
to report to the government authorities in the city the 
capture of an American schooner found trespassing 
within Canadian waters; the skipper started off in the 
direction of the residence of the American consul, 
ostensibly to acquaint him with his version of the illegal 
seizure of the Nimbus, As a matter of fact he did not 
go near the consul but awaited a favorable opportunity 
to return to the schooner unobserved. By the time he 
reached the Nimbus preparations had been completed 
for cutting the cable and setting the schooner adrift. 
He was to have no part in the attempt to take the ves- 
sel out of the harbor partly because he was un- 
acquainted with the channel but mostly that he might 
not be seen to have had any part in the plans or even 
to be aboard, by the members of the prize crew. 

While the booming of cannon was startling the people 
of the city and especially the commander who had gone 
ashore, our schooner was making steady headway to- 
ward the entrance of the harbor. Both foresail and 
mainsail were drawing well in the strong breeze. Every 
warning shot of the cutter caused apprehension aboard 
the schooner, yet reflection told us that little need be 
feared from that quarter in so dark a night. We 
judged that the Beetle would not leave the harbor until 
her commander returned from ashore and events proved 
138 


OUTLAWS OF THE SEA 


139 


that we were right. This gave us the advantage of 
a half-hour’s start over the other. 

“ That means that they’ll overhaul us in about an 
hour from now,” said Bill Spurling. 

“ How do you make that out.^ ” I inquired, for I ex- 
pected there would be no overhauling, once we got out- 
side the harbor. 

“ With this breeze we are going along at a good 
clip,” the other replied, “ say ten knots. The Beetle 
can go eighteen knots with steam up. It is likely that 
they drew their fires after anchoring, so that they could 
not make more than fifteen the first hour. That would 
put them right on top of our tafFrail before we go be- 
yond Chebucto Point. I wonder how our guest is get- 
ting along in the comfort of the cabin ” 

We had given no thought to the prize officer and his 
men since we got under way. Bill’s inquiry reminded 
us of a neglected duty. 

“ That’s right,” answered George Keene. “We 
must get rid of this supercargo somehow. We can’t 
take them to America or wherever we are going.” 

It was a matter for serious deliberation. Taking 
the men away from Halifax or Canadian waters might 
raise delicate questions of diplomacy between the two 
governments concerned. After discussing the matter 
for a time we decided to jettison our cargo of prize 
officer and crew of four, put them aboard a dory, and 
leave them to be picked up by the cutter. 

“ Better do it before we get outside where it is 
rougher,” suggested Lew Mills. “We don’t want any- 
thing serious to happen to them.” 

“ Let’s go below and see how the officer feels about 
being set adrift in a dory,” I said to Lew Mills. 

I opened the companionway slide and descended to the 
cabin. No sooner had I set foot upon the last stair 
when an order came for me to halt and throw up my 


140 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


hands. I glanced about the cabin. Clint, Ike Merrick 
and Duncan McCleod were seated in a row on the star- 
board locker. The oflScer stood in the middle of the 
cabin forward of the stove and was holding a revolver 
in his hand pointed at me. Upon discovering that I 
carried no weapon in mj hands he lowered his. When 
Lew Mills followed upon my heels he became apprehen- 
sive again and kept the weapon jacked up in our direc- 
tion. 

“ We shall do you no harm, sir,” I said. “ As you 
can understand, the Nimbus needs a long tow-rope to 
get back to Halifax to-night. We fellows never like to 
lie at anchor in a harbor when we can run outside.” 

‘‘ Do you know you are violating international law 
in taking us outside the three-mile limit ” the officer 
said. 

‘‘ Oh, yes, we have some very keen sea-lawyers aboard. 
That is our business with you. We will let you and 
your men leave the schooner before we pass the three- 
mile limit. But must you go so soon, sir.'’ It is rough 
to put you off in an open dory in a storm like this. 
It was at your own invitation that you came aboard the 
Nimbus in the first place; but we will give you a dory 
and lantern for your convenience.” 

Lee Parish summoned the four men from the fore- 
castle. A dory was swung overboard. While the oars 
and lantern were being placed aboard I turned to the 
officer again. 

“ There’s one thing that has been bothering me for 
some time, sir. How did you know Tuesday morning 
that the Nimbus had a school of fish so far to the 
westward of the rest of the fleet.'’ ” 

“ One of your own schooners gave the information,” 
replied the officer. “ The schooner ran alongside of us 
and the skipper shouted out for us to take a look at 
the schooner that had made a set to the westward.” 


OUTLAWS OF THE SEA 


141 


Do you know the name of the schooner? ” I asked 
eagerly. 

“ No, I do not.” 

At this point one of the seamen stepped forward and 
saluted his officer. ‘‘ Excuse me, sir,” he said, “ you 
were asking the name of the schooner that reported 
you? It was the Harvest Home, I remember her for 
my brother went to the Grand Banks one summer in 
her.” 

“ Thank you very much, my man,” I replied. “ Wait 
a minute till the schooner comes up into the wind. 
There ! ” I said as they climbed down into the boat, 
“ Y ou will be all right now. The Beetle will be along 
within twenty minutes. Keep showing your lantern 
once in a while and they will pick you up. Good-by, 
sir, a pleasant voyage to you ! ” 

The painter was cast off. The dory bobbed away in 
the blackness on top of the waves. As Bill Spurling 
rolled the wheel up to bring the schooner back to her 
course he shouted out toward the light of the lantern 
which came in erratic gleams from our lee, “ Tell that 
commander of yours we’re much obliged for the hundred 
dollars he gave us to dress these mackerel.” 

The Nimbus swung back on her course making better 
headway with the jibs drawing tighter. Bill and 
George stuck together at the wheel like Siamese twins. 
Bill actually handling the wheel and George every little 
while consulting the paper upon which he had the 
courses and their length marked. It was wonderful to 
see the two men in agreement for so long a time. The 
seriousness of their undertaking overcame all differ- 
ences. 

“ Things’ll be interesting out here in a little while,” 
said Bill to Skipper John, who put in appearance after 
the dory had been lost in the darkness. “ What had we 


142 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


better do? We can’t hope to outsail the cutter. She 
is sure to be right on our course to Chebucto Point and 
will overhaul us before we turn westward.” 

“ We’ll have to dodge her, that’s all,” replied John 
Deane. “ When we see her lights we can run off to the 
eastward until she passes us. It’s about time her lights 
began to show up.” 

We kept a sharp lookout astern for the Beetle. In 
the driving rain her lights would not be visible farther 
than half a mile; jet even so close as that we could 
easily dodge her in the darkness, we thought. It was 
Clint who first discovered her lights astern. 

“There she is,” he said after a time, “ See? Right 
astern. Both her lights are showing.” 

“ All right,” said Bill. “ Stand by the sheets and 
draw them flat when we come into the wind.” 

The schooner was headed into the storm. Our speed 
was diminished considerably and there was some fear 
that we might not be far enough away from the Beetle 
to escape detection. We kept a sharp lookout on her 
lights which, after a time, disappeared. George Keene 
explained this by saying that the Beetle was picking 
up the men in the dory, a very probable explanation 
since the two lights appeared from the same quarter 
after a short interval. The officer in the dory thought 
we had given him the lantern to make sure he would be 
discovered by the crew of the cutter. So we had; but 
our purpose was not so humanitarian as it was selfish. 
Every minute that the Beetle spent in picking up men 
in a dory was so much gain for the Nimbus. If we had 
the job to do over again we would have divided the 
prize crew and set them adrift two in a boat at in- 
tervals. 

“ It is impossible for them to see us in this darkness,” 
said Lew Mills. “ We are as safe half a mile from them 


OUTLAWS OF THE SEA 


143 


as we are five miles. As it is they will pass us with 
the least amount of our sails broadside of them. What 
will be your course, Bill, when the cutter passes.? ” 

“ Thought I’d run her out to sea a few miles, then 
swing back on the course to Cape Sable when we got 
outside Cape Sambo.” 

“ Why not swing right back on her course and follow 
the Beetle along.? ” I suggested. “ That’s the last place 
they will be looking to find us.” 

“ It certainly is, my boy,” said the skipper, “ and 
that’s what we will do. Follow on their heels. If we 
cannot see them they cannot see us. When they turn 
at Cape Sambo, as they are sure to do, they will swing 
out to sea a mile or so more looking for us and we’ll go 
right on our way rejoicing.” 

The cutter could be seen more clearly now on our 
stern. She passed within a quarter of a mile of us, 
her port light showing dimly through the driving rain 
but a stream of sparks from her funnel leaving a flare 
in the sky that was easily traced at the short distance 
we were from her. The Nimbus circled back in her 
wake and for a time we went bowling along after them, 
so long as we could see the sparks. It was the best 
course we could have taken for we lost the least dis- 
tance and it put the helmsmen back immediately upon 
the course where they were sure of their bearings and 
distances. In another half hour all signs of our pur- 
suer ahead of us had been lost in the storm. 

“ It’s like looking for a lost anchor on Le Have for 
them to try to pick us up to-night, with all the light 
they give to warn us of their position,” said Lee Parish. 
“ We might as well set our watches and bob a kink while 
we can.” 

To make matters safer double watches were set for 
the night, two forward and two others at the wheel; 


144 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


after the watches had been set the crew turned into 
their bunks below deck. Skipper John did not leave 
the deck during the night. 

At midnight we were called from below to take the 
seine-boat aboard the schooner. When I got on deck 
I found that others of the crew already had the boat 
drawn alongside and made secure to the boat-boom. 
The wind was driving furiously and the schooner was 
plunging and rolling deep in the seas. The boat was 
half filled with water and might have been swamped and 
lost if towed astern longer. Torches, set up in the rig- 
ging, were flickering and flaring before the onslaughts 
of the gale. There was little that I could do except to 
hold a lantern where its uncertain light might assist 
the crew at their work. 

Ranny MacDonald, the bight-passer, was in the 
seine-boat. He had just made the boat-tackle fast to 
the forward part of the boat and hurried astern to 
make the aft-tackle fast. The seas were running high. 
At one time the schooner would mount high aloft on a 
crest while the seine-boat alongside would be far below; 
again the position of the two craft would be reversed, 
the thirty-eight-foot seine-boat towering above the rail 
of the schooner. The men at the tackles needed to 
watch sharply to take in slack rope at times, and again 
to let it run freely through the tackle blocks whenever 
the boat sank quickly into the abyss of a trough. 

A Newfoundlander by name of Morris was holding 
the forward halyard. Once when the schooner went up 
suddenly and the boat down Morris was jerked off his 
feet and hurled head first over the rail into the boister- 
ous sea. His disappearance from deck was instantane- 
ous. We were left standing open-mouthed in astonish- 
ment at the man’s sudden disappearance. John Deane 
was standing by the main-rigging supervising the work 
of taking in the boat. When the man shot headfore- 


OUTLAWS OF THE SEA 


145 


most over the rail the skipper acted without a moment’s 
hesitation. He sprang from the brake to the schooner’s 
rail, then leaped for the boat somewhere in the darkness 
below. When we had rushed to the rail with lanterns 
we saw him at the bow of the seine-boat. He made a 
lunge for something in the troubled waters between the 
boat and the schooner. He barely missed the yellow 
oilcoat of the drowning fisherman. He lunged again, 
this time holding to the rail of the boat with left hand 
and foot, his body submerged in the wave. He seized 
the man’s coat and pulled the fellow to the surface; 
then, not being in a position to pull him aboard the 
boat, he let go his hold on the boat, grasped Morris in 
both his strong arms and turned on his back in the 
water while he literally boosted the unfortunate man out 
of the seas into the seine-boat. And then Ranny Mac- 
Donald was at hand to help the skipper aboard. 

Morris was taken to his berth in the forecastle more 
dead than alive. It was like resurrecting one from the 
dead to restore him to the schooner’s deck. Only the 
quick action and almost superhuman strength of our 
leader could have accomplished the deed so quickly, at a 
time when moments meant life or death. 

The gale increased in fury through the hours of the 
night. When the crew went below at one o’clock in the 
morning, after the seine-boat had been made secure 
against the inner port rail, John Deane was at the wheel 
guiding his schooner through the gale and guarding his 
crew against all harm from wind or wave. As the men, 
dripping wet, disappeared one by one into cabin or 
forecastle they gave silent thanks that they served un- 
der a man who risked his own life to save one of his crew. 
With the dawn of another day the storm was lashing the 
seas with unabated fury. It drove the Nimbus for- 
ward through white, heaving masses on which appeared 
neither ships’ sails nor steamers’ funnels. The schooner. 


146 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


after passing Cape Sable and Seal Island in a wide 
circle, was headed for Mt. Desert Rock. 

Friday forenoon, four days after her seizure by the 
Beetle^ the Nimhus entered the Latona river and was 
made fast to the wharf. Far down the stream the 
identity of the schooner was made out by men ashore 
and the word passed upstream. A small boy, upon 
hearing the news, ran up the bank toward the village 
shouting at the top of his voice, “ The Nimhtis is in ! 
The Nimbus is in ! ” If ever Comberton folks were sur- 
prised it was at the return of the schooner and her crew 
in late May. Many of the crew aboard the schooner, 
too, were surprised to return from the Cape Shore trip 
so soon, or to return in the Nimhus at all. 


CHAPTER XVI 


A BOLD VENTURE 

J OHN DEANE had left the Latona river an hon- 
est fisherman ; he entered his home port proclaimed 
by a foreign government an outlaw of the sea and 
that, too, done at the instigation of one of his fellow 
townsmen. We had not been in Comberton twelve hours 
before word reached the community over the wires that 
a reward of five thousand dollars had been offered for 
the capture of the schooner Nimbus, Captain John 
Deane, by the government whose laws, it was claimed, he 
had violated and whose dignity he had affronted. His 
friends were quick to assure him of their faith in his 
cause, yet they knew full well that no amount of assur- 
ance in Comberton would diminish the dangers to which 
his schooner would be exposed at sea. 

What should he do next? He had sailed to Comber- 
ton after the escape from Halifax to dispose of his 
cargo of mackerel and to get his bearings. With a 
price set upon his head, for that is what the reward 
amounted to, he would be greatly handicapped during 
the remainder of the fishing season. He had the 
schooner but her ship’s papers were held by the com- 
mander of the revenue cutter. Possibly he might fish 
in American waters unimpeded by his own government ; 
but the waters of the maritime provinces were closed 
to him. There always would be vigilant cutters waiting 
and watching to seize his schooner should he venture 
into the forbidden regions. In fact, he was not sure 
that any person might not be commissioned to seize his 


148 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


schooner and cargo anywhere upon the ocean. To re- 
main in New England waters while the migrating fish 
were rushing toward the Gulf of St. Lawrence would be 
to throw away the golden opportunity of the season for 
securing a full cargo of mackerel. Discretion warned 
him to play a careful game, his ambition whispered of 
great catches of mackerel still to be had on the Cape 
Shore. The bold spirit of youth decided in favor of 
what seemed a rash venture and what proved to be filled 
with exciting moments. 

For one day only the Nimbus remained moored at the 
wharf. On the day after arrival the storm had cleared, 
moorings were cast off, a favoring breeze freshened from 
the northwest, and the good schooner bowled along into 
the deeper seas with all sails drawing. Outside the bay 
she was headed toward the Rock; beyond that, the 
course shaved by Cape Sable and when the schooner had 
rounded the west front of Nova Scotia her daring 
skipper held her to a course that would take her back 
to the very regions from which she had so recently fled. 
This was the course that everybody said he should not 
take. And since John Deane knew that the Nova 
Scotia coast was the last region where friends or enemies 
would expect him to go he decided to venture into the 
forbidden waters. 

At midnight on the second night at sea the Nimbus 
was off Halifax again. Bill Spurling was summoned 
to the wheel to guide the miscreant schooner back to the 
scene of her late imprisonment. We entered the harbor 
under the jealous light of a late moon; we located the 
moorings of the port anchor ; and we sailed out of har- 
bor again as silently as a wraith of mist, unknown and 
unchallenged by the sleeping port. The lost anchor 
rested in place on the rail, destined to serve the schooner 
through many storms until it should lie at last and for- 
ever on the bottom of a hostile sea. As the Nimbus, 


A BOLD VENTURE 


149 


glided noiselessly back into the Atlantic the face of the 
kindly moon, now low in the west, was turned away 
from John Deane’s craft as if she approved the rape 
of the anchor but feared to witness openly the deed 
lest she be called to testify against him whose cause she 
had assisted. 

Thereafter followed hard days, days of work and 
nights of toil, a week- of remorseless driving of schooner 
and crew such as only a strong man could accomplish. 
John Deane proved himself a “ driver ” among the 
seiners, working day and night alike to succeed, bidding 
defiance to wind and storm, placing no hardships upon 
his men that he was not willing to share with them, and 
driving his schooner wherever he would so long as 
mackerel could be secured. He gave little thought to 
danger that his schooner might encounter, no thought 
to the work he was undertaking; as the hunter drives 
from his mind every impression of field or forest except 
the game he pursues so the skipper of the Nimbus dis- 
missed from his thought everything except his over- 
whelming desire to catch mackerel. 

We fell in with the seining fleet off old Louisburg 
without once having seen a hostile cutter along the en- 
tire coast. From Frank Payson’s men who had been 
ashore at Louisburg we learned that the Nimbus and 
her commander were doubly outlawed since it was re- 
ported to the men that the reward of five thousand 
dollars for the capture of the Nimbus had been in- 
creased by a public spirited personage whose name was 
withheld ” to ten thousand dollars. 

“ That’s putting a big value on Captain Ober’s 
schooner,” commented Skipper John when he was in- 
formed of the news. “ They say that money talks — 
we’ll see what sort of conversation the ten thousand 
dollars will stir up this summer.” Apparently he dis- 
missed the matter from his mind; yet as the weeks ad- 


150 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


vanced he became aware that the old adage had not lost 
its vigor. 

On the day that the schooner overtook the fleet our 
real work began. We were coasting along the Cape 
Breton shore with fair weather and light winds. Sud- 
denly the lookout at the crosstrees shouted “ School 
Ho!” Everybody jumped at the call. When I 
reached deck the crew were frantically endeavoring to 
shove their legs into limp oilpants and at the same time 
craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the schooling 
mackerel. We made a quick dash for the school, set 
the seine, and pursed up in short order. All in vain, 
for we caught only a “ water haul.” Scarcely had we 
begun to take the seine off the seine-boat to make it 
ready for another set when a sharp “ School Ho I ” 
again sounded from aloft. 

“ Haul up the other boat,” the skipper called. He 
was in the rigging watching for mackerel. ‘‘ Let go 
the jibsheet 1 Keep her to 1 Pull in the mainsheet I In 
the boat I ” 

The orders came thick and fast. Lew Mills appeared 
from the forecastle. We abandoned everything, 
schooner and all, to his care, and tumbled over the rail 
into the seine-boat. Success this time, for the seine 
hung deep and heavy in the water when the schooner 
came to pick us up. Down came jib and jumbo on the 
run, the forepeak was drawn to port and dropped. 
After that we clung to the toppinglift halyards while 
we bailed our catch of fish aboard the schooner. It was 
a long time, in which our arms ached and passed beyond 
the aching point, and our poor hands were given such 
a drubbing and squeezing as they never had before. 
No end to the stream of mackerel being dumped on deck, 
while the weary arms must go up heavy with their own 
weight but pull downward without lagging strength. 

No mercy from Lew Mills who guided the big dipnet 


A BOLD VENTURE 


151 


down into the masses of striped fish alongside the 
schooner. “ Go ahead — come up ! Go ahead — come 
up ! ” he called without ceasing through the hours. For 
a long time we gripped the biting, slippery halyard, 
swaying to the right and the left in long swinging heaves 
on the rope while the numb, mangled fingers were re- 
duced to fleshy pulp. “ Go ahead — come up ! ” all 
through the hours until four in the afternoon. Decks 
were filled from rail to rail, from forecastle to the main- 
house. No room was left to move about, none to set up 
the gib-keelers for dressing the catch, no way to get 
forward to the forecastle except to balance along the 
slippery rail. 

That was a memorable night. The schooner lay to 
under mainsail and foresail. Torches in the rigging 
shed light upon the scene and gave weird pictures of the 
men at their work. Midnight brought hot coffee and 
“ mug-ups ” from the cook’s quarters which no man re- 
fused. Splitting and gibbing and plowing and wash- 
ing a deckload of fish, no rest or sleep until the work 
was done, no night for the tired crew of the Nimbus, 
At four-thirty the following morning when the peaceful 
glow of another work day was spreading over sky and 
sea alike, we finished the task before us and tumbled 
into our berths to sleep and rest. 

It was less than four hours before George Keene 
touched me lightly on the shoulder. ‘‘ Your watch,” 
he announced briefly. I took my hands along with me 
as I went to deck, poor papier-mache things that they 
were, all doubled up and closed tight as a dead miser’s 
fist. They no longer seemed a part of me, just useless 
bunches of flesh fastened inconveniently to my wrists. 
And with my thumbs I pried each stiff finger painfully 
out of the palms until my hands were half open. 

At the cross-trees I found John Deane searching the 
seas everywhere for mackerel — vigilant, tireless, sleep- 


152 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


loss worker, going to his station on the cross-trees at 
dawn when the rest of us went to our bunks. That is 
the way of the mackerel “ driver.” He drives himself 
but is considerate of his crew; he goes aloft to remain 
hours at a time ; he spends less time in his berth than 
any other man aboard ship ; even with capable men at 
the crosstrees he shares with them the vigilance of dis- 
covering the first signs of schooling mackerel. 

“ Look down there, David,” he said to me, almost 
before I had got my back comfortably settled against 
the masthead. He pointed to a dark streak upon the 
water just ahead of the schooner. “ See.? There’s a 
raft of fish. You’d better go down.” Then to the man 
at the wheel he called out, “ Keep her to a little ! 
Steady ! Call the men ; pull up the boat ! ” 

* Two hours later fifty-seven wash barrels of fish were 
on deck to be added to the hundred and sixty-seven of 
the day before. Work ahead for mangled hands to do, 
and work enough already on deck in heading and stow- 
ing away the other catch to keep us busy through the 
day and until nine in the evening. 

“ Keep a sharp lookout for schools of mackerel,” 
was the warning given by the skipper to the watch 
when he retired for the night. Even night placed no 
check to his zeal and vigilance. 

Some villain or other did keep a sharp lookout. We 
were routed out at eleven and ordered into the seine-boat. 
A shadowy gleam of schooling mackerel, visible by the 
phosphorescent streak made by the swimming fish, had 
caught the eye of the vigilant watch. How mackerel 
fishermen detest night “ owling ” ! It rarely proves suc- 
cessful, it breaks into the night’s rest and is always 
disagreeable. The chill of the night gets into the fisher- 
men’s systems and makes them very unsocial beings. 
After being towed astern the schooner for a couple of 
hours the “ owling ” was given up and we were al- 


A BOLD VENTURE 


153 


lowed to retire to our warm comforters and blankets. 

Fortunately for the crew a friendly fog hung over the 
waters until eight o’clock the next morning. We had 
passed Scatari Island and were sailing up the east coast 
of Cape Brecon. As soon as the fog began to lift 
schools of mackerel were seen all about the schooner. 
There was work for every schooner in the fleet, with men 
laboring for dear life to capture the fish while they 
schooled and the fog permitted. 

Skipper John was at his best. He made as many 
sets of the seine as any one could and more than any 
of the rest did, four sets of the big seine before the fog 
settled upon the waters again and hid the fish from 
view. Even when the fog rolled in from the sea upon 
us we were in the seine-boat a mile or more from the 
schooner; but, fog or no fog, we got our fourth catch 
of mackerel safely within the seine. It proved the 
biggest catch of the day. Lucky So some said. But 
due more likely to the driving skipper and his tireless 
crew. 

Busy times still aboard the bloody decks of the 
Nimbus and it lacked two hours of midnight before our 
day’s work was done. We were routed out at five 
o’clock, seven hours later, to chase a shadowy school of 
fish in vain. Then followed for a couple of days strong 
winds, and heavy seas to break up our winning streak of 
luck. We ran up the coast to the shelter of Aspey 
Bay. 

The fleet had now reached the limit of the Cape 
Shore trip beyond which the schooners do not venture 
in their pursuit of the spring school of mackerel. The 
crew of the Nimbus were jubilant as we sought our 
berths at night. We had a right to be. No other 
crew in the fleet had worked so hard as we or been re- 
warded so bounteously for their toil. To John Deane 
belonged in a large measure the credit for the finQ Qatch 


154 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


of mackerel on the wharf at Comberton and in the hold 
of the Nimbus, Tired though we were, every man 
aboard ship was hoping for another clear day and an 
opportunity to pit his skill and brawn against the fur- 
tive wiles of the disappearing schools. 

As events proved, there was plenty of need of brain 
and brawn the following day. Toward sunset, with a 
subsidence of the storm outside, the Nimbus was got 
under way and passed outside to be ready for any 
emergency, whether schooling fish or hostile cutters. 
Other seiners joined the little fleet at Aspey Bay and 
among the number, although offshore from us, Clint 
discovered the familiar rigging of the Harvest Home, 
But the commander of the Harvest Home did not dis- 
cover our presence until the following morning. 


CHAPTER XVII 


A CONTEST OF VIKINGS 

T hursday, the eighth of June, was a magnifi- 
cent day on the Cape Breton shore. The fog 
which had hung over us for several days lifted 
early off the quiet waters of Aspey Bay and disclosed 
the American fishing fleet making ready for the activi- 
ties of another day. Along the narrow strip of shore 
columns of smoke from the homes of fishermen curled 
upward toward the lofty hills that rise above the bay. 
The headlands of Cape North were aglow with the east- 
ern light. On the hiUs the somber green of highland 
spruce was relieved by occasional clumps of budding 
poplar and birch. Along the lower slopes where the 
grade was gentler, little patches of green field struggled 
to climb the sides of the mountain. The hand of winter 
still rested in the uppermost valleys and, as if reluctant 
to leave the country, had deployed narrow drifts of 
snow down the deeper recesses like a rear-guard protect- 
ing a necessary retreat. 

Long before the sun arose we were astir aboard the 
Nimbus, Precious little time there had been that night 
for rest and sleep. The slender forecastle stack was 
pouring forth volumes of smoke before my watch ended 
at two o’clock ; by four. Lew Mills had fed both gangs 
of men and was standing near the foremast shrouds 
shaking his red tablecloth defiantly in the face of the 
awakening fleet. 

Every man of the crew was on his mettle with the 
belief that the last day for a “ killing ” had come. 
155 


156 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


All was put in readiness for the last effort. The seine- 
boat was alongside, the crew had given one another a 
“spell ” at pumping it dry; a jug of fresh water had 
been stowed away in the stern locker ; the seine-heaver 
and bight-passer tiered up the top layers of the seine 
with unusual care, while the dory-mates, Clint and 
George, sputtered away at each other in good-humored 
banter as they lowered the dory overboard and made it 
fast with shortened painter near the starboard quarter. 

Skipper John was at the cross-trees. Whether or 
not he had had any breakfast was a doubtful question. 
He was keenly alert; that much we could see as we 
watched him from the deck. He swayed back and forth 
on the cross-trees as he scanned every rod of sea within 
his view. 

As the light fog lifted off the bay the fleet began to 
get under way. We could hear the clank of chains 
passing through the hawse-pipe, the creaking of long 
unused tackle-blocks, and the “ all-pull-together ” of 
half-awake fishermen. The sea was calm. So light was 
the wind that the sails went up limp and lifeless. 

John Miles and Captain Beers were the only other 
skippers who had remained outside the harbor during 
the night. The wisdom of our action was now appar- 
ent. In all likelihood the mackerel would school off the 
entrance to Aspey Bay and not far from the place 
where our schooners were rising and falling in the old 
swell. The wind would be useless in getting the schoon- 
ers to the schools of fish ; if any mackerel were taken it 
would be by means of the “ ash breeze ” — the long, 
strong pull of the oar in the seine-boats. The three 
schooners lying offshore had a two-mile advantage over 
the others and would have first chance at the best schools 
of mackerel. 

Slowly we drifted offshore. When the fog disap- 
peared entirely the sun poured upon us with a steadi- 


A CONTEST OF VIKINGS 


157 


ness that foretold a hot day at the oars. While we 
were lounging about the deck and watching the inshore 
fishermen towing their schooners out of the bay we 
heard the skipper talking to the watch who was aloft 
with him. He was pointing with his arm toward the 
eastward. 

Skipper sees a school,” some one ventured. 

At this we jumped upon the house or into the lower 
rigging, whichever was handier, as eager to see a school 
of mackerel as if it was our first experience. Shortly 
we made out several schools, all of them a long way from 
the schooner. Aboard the other schooners men climbed 
into the rigging, following our lead and not to be out- 
done in the attempt to get the first school of fish. Then 
on the surface about a mile away a school larger and 
blacker than the others, slowly made its appearance. 

“What a raft of fish!” exclaimed our Cape Negro 
representative, “ Enough to load us down to the 
scuppers.” 

Further remarks were cut short by the skipper’s 
curt order, “ Get into the boat.” 

We scrambled back to deck, rushed to port with oil 
clothes under our arms and sprang to our places in the 
boat. Tbe watch aloft threw his leg about the jib- 
halyard and came to deck in a streak, burning his pants 
and boot through by the scorching rope. All eyes 
turned to the skipper. He had slipped down to the 
topmast ratline where he remained studying the direc- 
tion of the moving body of mackerel. Then he turned 
to look over other promising schools, took a look at 
John Miles, and finally glanced at the Harvest Home, 
What he saw stirred him to instant action. He swung 
into the standing rigging, slid to the deck on the instant 
and shouted “ Push off ” before his feet fairly struck 
the deck of the schooner. 

The bow of the seine-boat swung off, the oars fell into 


158 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


place and we were ready to pull ahead when the skipper 
made a flying leap from the rail as the stern of the boat 
swung in toward the vessel. The seine-heaver reached 
out a friendly hand and saved him from falling back 
into the sea. 

“ Go ahead on your oars,” he called, scrambling to 
his feet. 

The oars caught the water together and we were off. 

“ There goes ’Cate Beers,” cried J ohn Cameron 
from his vantage point on top of the seine. When our 
boat shot out from under the Nimbus we were going at 
full speed. The seine-boat of the Harvest Home was 
already a hundred yards from her schooner, headed for 
the same school of fish. The crew of the other boat 
had a start of us by a full minute. Captain Beers was 
at the steering oar. His crew were swaying back and 
forth with clockwise precision as they bent to the long 
swinging stroke of the mackerel seiner. With every 
pull of the oar their boat leaped her bows out of the 
water. It was this sight that had stirred John Deane 
to quick action. Over our left shoulder we caught a 
glimpse of ’Cate Beers and his men leading us in 
the race which spurred every man to his best. If an 
added stimulus was needed it came from Lew Mills who 
had taken charge of the Nimbus. 

“ Are you fellows going to let ’Cate Beers get that 
school of fish.?^ ” he called out to us. 

He ran back nimbly to the wheel, whirled it about 
deftly with a turn of his hand, then glanced aloft at the 
sails. We saw him leap upon the house, raise his 
clenched fist and bring it down into his other palm with 
a resounding whack. It was a plea for a mighty effort 
and we could not disappoint him. 

Big Lee Parish at the stroke oar answered the ap- 
peal of the master of the forecastle. No man of the 
crew was stronger or tougher than he. His muscles and 


A CONTEST OF VIKINGS 


159 


sinews had been hardened in the Icelandic fisheries. 
The twelve-foot oar was a plaything in his hands. How 
it bent beneath his strength as he whipped his hands to 
his breast at the end of each stroke ! How quickly and 
surely the other men followed his example and caught 
the stroke of the leader ! Backward and forward we 
swung together, every stroke our strongest. Nothing 
was held in reserve. The occasion called forth our 
supreme effort in a straight-away pull such as only men 
trained in rough seas can give. 

Shortly the two boats neared each other as they sped 
toward the goal of schooling mackerel. From out the 
corners of our eyes we saw that the other crew were 
pulling as they had not done since the Harvest Home 
was launched. That was a sight to see — a dozen men 
in one boat putting their brawn and muscle against a 
like number of men in another ! No college contest here, 
with professional coaches and fair ladies and screaming 
thousands adding enthusiasm to a race of colors. 
These are the Vikings of the Western World, sea-bred 
and strong, struggling against men of their own class, 
fighting the battle for their daily bread and looking 
only for a fair chance with their rivals. 

Not a word from the men in command. They knew 
their crews, knew that seasoned fishermen rarely need 
urging to call forth their utmost efforts. They knew 
each other, too, did these mariners. Skipper John had 
not taken his eyes from the schooling fish from the mo- 
ment he took the steering oar in his hand. Straight as 
a bullet sped his boat toward its goal. J ohn Deane real- 
ized that the Gloucester fleet behind him was taking his 
measure now that he was pitted against the very man 
under whom he had served, involuntarily and with hard- 
ship, in his first deep-sea fishing. 

Captain Beers had no fear for the skipper, although 
he had wholesome respect for his physical prowess. He, 


160 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


too, watched the school of mackerel. Now and then he 
glanced at Skipper John to measure the distance be- 
tween the boats, to calculate his own advantage, and 
possibly to decipher Skipper John’s intentions. But 
John Deane did not indicate by look or sign that he was 
aware ’Cate Beers and his struggling crew were afloat 
that fine morning. 

Another glance at the rival boat showed me that we 
were less than two hundred feet apart and tearing to- 
ward each other as the boats converged upon a common 
goal with a recklessness that foreboded disaster for 
both. Beers had the advantage of distance by a full 
boat-length but he would need to turn from his straight 
course slightly to be in position to make the set. We 
held the advantage of position, since the school of 
mackerel was moving directly away from us. 

How would the race end.? Look out. Skipper John, 
you’ll run their boat down! Beers has the lead; why 
don’t you change your course and give him the school.? 
These thoughts flashed through my mind. But there 
was never a budging of his steering oar, never a look in 
the direction of the rival boat, never a swerve to the 
right or left from the goal ahead. The crew caught 
the skipper’s spirit. We knew that he could not be 
beaten and we bent with renewed zeal to the oars. 
Sweat stood out on our faces, our breath came deep and 
heavy. The boat shot straight on, quick in its response 
to our efforts. 

Then the unexpected happened. Lee Parish put all 
his might and main into his work. The tough ash oar 
was no longer a match for his giant strength. It 
snapped in two like a pipestem. 

“ Hell’s luck to you,” Lee shouted after the broken 
blade as he rammed it quickly beneath the wave. “ Give 
me your oar, boy,” he said, turning to me as I was re- 
covering the stroke. 


A CONTEST OF VIKINGS 


161 


On the instant I unshipped my oar, made a pass for 
his rowlock and by good luck shipped it into place at the 
first trial. Lee seized hold of the oar and swung back 
on it without missing a stroke. I turned about and 
pushed on the oar of the man who sat behind me. 

When I turned on the thwart the boat of ’Cate Beers 
was sweeping across our bow. We were so close that 
an accident seemed unavoidable. John Deane held his 
boat unflinchingly to its course. But Beers was equal 
to the occasion. He suddenly raised his arms on high, 
swept his great steering oar beneath the bow of our 
boat and called sharply for his men to ease their star- 
board oars. His boat turned quickly, the stern swung 
out of our reach and we missed crashing into his boat 
by an oar’s length as we shot past. 

Now we were on the inside and in a position to make 
the set. Scarcely a boat-length separated us when 
Skipper John cried out in a voice that every man in 
the other crew well understood, ‘‘ Let go your twine ! ” 

And our big seine-heaver did let it go. With a 
mighty sweep of his arms he flung the bight of twine 
into the sea, then seized bight after bight from John 
Cameron’s hands and cast them from him into the water 
with such glee as our forefathers cast boxes of tea into 
Boston harbor. We had won the race from ’Cate Beers 
— and the school was ours to get ! 

When our seine struck the water the contest was 
closed to the other boat. Captain Beers said never a 
word. He had been beaten in a fair race; but it cut 
him to the quick to be outdone by John Deane. He 
needed to say little, for his crew left nothing unsaid that 
befitted the occasion. In the very short time that we 
remained within earshot of the other crew we learned 
a great deal about ourselves which we would have re- 
sented on any other occasion. We were too much en- 
grossed in our work to pay heed to their jeers. 


162 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


Our boat shot straight ahead fifty yards before it 
began to circle about the fish. The mackerel were still 
at the surface schooling finely. The skipper leaned 
far to port in frantic endeavors to keep the seine-boat to 
the circle he should follow about the school. We were 
too much for him that morning and he had to call upon 
us to ease the starboard oars. Around we went, faster 
and faster. Never before had the crew shot the seine- 
boat around a school of fish as on that day. Two hun- 
dred fathoms of twine were flung out, the circle was 
completed and still the fish showed up within the circle 
of corks. Could we get them before they dived beneath 
the seine 

“ Ship oars,” called the skipper. 

In they came with a crash and rattle as they were 
flung into the port davits. 

“ Grab that buoy, Ike. That’s it, pull it in. Get 
that tackle in place. Quick now ! Pass me that purse- 
line. Shove the other bight through the block. All 
ready, go ahead on your line! The fish are there and 
we’ll have them in a minute or so.” 

How the skipper got down amidst us so quickly no- 
body knew, nobody had time to inquire. He was every- 
where directing the work. It was his business to have 
no false moves, to see that everything moved with pre- 
cision. No doubt about his being a master mariner 
this day. 

How we pulled on the purse-line! Sweat streamed 
from every pore, muscles ached, eyes were bleary with 
the effort we made. Nothing mattered until the work 
was done. Hand over hand we rushed the rope in 
until the slack was taken up; then it came harder and 
we bent our backs to pull all together. Forward and 
back swayed the gangs, pull apart and come together, 
back and forth time and again. Would it never end, 
and our backs a-breaking with the pull we had had at 


A CONTEST OF VIKINGS 


16B 


the oars and doubly breaking as we strained at the 
purse-line. Harder and heavier grew the work, shorter 
and sharper the pulls. Not a word was spoken, no 
breath to lose here. 

Was there no end to that purse-line? Were the 
mackerel still in the seine? Or was this work all for 
naught? What a raft of fish there must be to make 
the purse-line pull so hard! It seemed an eternity of 
pulling, when suddenly the welcome grating of the 
purse-rings was heard against the rail. One long, 
last pull and the rings rattled over the rail into the 
boat. We sank back upon the thwarts completely 
pumped out — but happy. We had won the race, 
the fish were there ! 


CHAPTER XVIII 


DEFYING THE LION 

I T was a lively scene in Aspey Bay that morning. 
Shortly after we made our set, even before the 
twine was dried in, a light breeze of wind came off 
the headlands which gave the schooners a chance to 
move freely about the fishing grounds. The business 
of mackerel seining could be seen in all its phases. The 
fish were schooling over a small area, since their lines 
were converging as the great mass of fish neared Cape 
North in their migration into the North Bay. Schoon- 
ers were tacking and jibing about to avoid running 
down the seine-boat in their path or to prevent collid- 
ing with other schooners, and always to keep from 
running into another man’s school of fish. There were 
schooners with “jib-hauls,” whose crews were heaving 
at the halyards to retrieve their newly gotten treasures 
from the seas ; other vessels were coming alongside 
their seine-boats to make fast to the seine, with its catch 
bulging the net in generous measure beneath the sur- 
face; still others were sailing back and forth under 
the ambidextrous hands of the cook — hands that 
were equally adept in molding bread, in splitting mack- 
erel and in sailing the schooner while the crew were in 
the seine-boat. 

We were leisurely drying in the twine when Lew 
Mills came up with the Nimbus, He made no reference 
to the great victory that we had just won, doubly sat- 
isfying to us because the catch completed our cargo 
and because we had defeated ’Cate Beers. The cook 
164 


DEFYING THE LION 


165 


called to us sharply, ‘‘You’d better get those fish 
aboard the schooner pretty quick. You are not too 
far from the three-mile limit. Looks as if a revenue 
cutter was coming, there’s a streak of smoke on the 
horizon.” 

The skipper sprang into the dory and pulled to the 
Nimbus, He mounted the rigging where, with the aid 
of glasses, he had a better view of the horizon. He 
returned to deck almost immediately and turned the 
bow of the schooner toward the seine-boat. “ Drop 
everything else and bail in the mackerel. There’s a 
cutter coming this way. She may make trouble for 
us. We’d better be up and away before she arrives. 
Now hustle, men, if you never did before.” 

We had already made a record in the manner that 
our full cargo of mackerel had been taken. With the 
added stimulus of a chance to get away to Gloucester 
before the cutter should arrive, to be the first of the 
fleet to leave the Cape Shore with a loaded schooner, 
we forgot the labors of the past week and even the ex- 
ertions of the morning. Never did we make the big 
dipnet jump out of the water with its load of strug- 
gling mackerel as on that day. Up arms and down 
again, this time faster than we believed possible. Sore 
hands were of the past, stiff arms had been left behind 
at Scatari, tired backs ached no more. We wanted to 
save our school and get away from trouble. I thought 
of John Deane’s woodpile philosophy, “When you do 
one thing and think about another it doesn’t seem like 
work.” Our thoughts were elsewhere than on sore 
fingers and tired muscles. What would be the good to 
have escaped from Halifax if we were seized again 
with a full cargo So we pulled and swayed on the 
topping-lifts as if they were playthings. The ap- 
proaching cutter was still four miles away when the 
last mackerel was bailed on deck. 


166 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


‘‘ Better get away from here, hadn’t we? ” Lew Mills 
suggested to the skipper. 

“ Why should we hurry ? ” he inquired, entirely at 
ease. We did not know what plans he had in mind. 
We had confidence in his judgment yet we had to admit 
to a little uneasiness in mind as the cutter sailed 
around through the fleet of schooners. 

“ We don’t need any more mackerel,” Lew replied. 
“ We have got as many as we can handle now. Why 
not set the topsails and get away to Gloucester? The 
breeze is getting fresher all the time. Besides, I be- 
lieve the Beetle is looking for trouble.” 

“ That’s just why we should be in no hurry to leave 
the fleet. When there’s trouble we want to be among 
friends, not alone. Look at that! There’s where our 
trouble begins.” John Deane pointed to the Harvest 
Home, whose dory was just leaving the schooner’s 
side headed for the cutter. 

“ Pass me the glasses.” He took the binoculars 
from George Keene’s hands. “ Just as I thought. 
’Cate Beers is going aboard to inform the cutter’s of- 
ficers that the Nimbus is in the fleet. 

“ It’s the old man himself going aboard the Beetle, 
The old hypocrite! Selling his own townsmen just to 
please his boss, Seth Hinds. That’s why I’m in no 
hurry to leave the fleet. The officer may hesitate to 
seize us while we are with the rest of the fleet. We’ll 
drop a word for some of the other skippers to stick by 
us for a while.” 

Acting on the idea the Nimbus was put about and 
circled among the friendly schooners. Captain Deane 
explained to the commanders that he expected trouble 
from the Beetle and wanted his fellow skippers to help 
him out, if an opportunity afforded. 

“ Stand in between us and the cutter if they at- 
tempt to board us,” he called to John Miles, as the two 


DEFYING THE IJON 


167 


schooners were passing. “ You’ll do me a favor to 
delay the game when it is on as much as possible, but 
take care not to get into trouble yourself.” 

The cutter circled among the schooners as if she was 
paying a friendly visit. But when she came within 
easy distance of the Nimbus a boat was lowered from 
her side. 

“ Here, Bill, take the wheel. Keep the Nimbus away 
from the Beetle as much as you can; work her to the 
southward, too, without getting out of the fleet too 
much. Have the topsail halyards loosed and the stay- 
sail ready to set. Use your sense now, if you ever did. 
You men had better let me do the talking.” 

The cutter’s boat shot across the water to the Nim- 
bus with two middies seated at the oars. In the stern 
of the boat sat Captain Quigley, a revenue officer who 
had displaced the former commander of the Beetle. 
As the boat came alongside the forward rower shipped 
his oars and stood ready to throw the painter. John 
Deane stood aft of the main rigging and caught the 
painter as it was thrown over the rail. We noticed 
that he stooped and made the end fast to the purse- 
weight that happened to be under the rail, as there was 
no cleat at hand. 

“ Captain Deane ? ” inquired the oflScer stiffly, partly 
rising from the seat as if he expected the boat to be 
pulled closer to the schooner’s side. 

“Sir!” responded John Deane, respectfully salut- 
ing the officer. He made no eflPort to draw the boat 
closer. 

“ I wish to board your schooner.” 

“ For what purpose.? ” inquired the skipper steadily. 

“ As an officer of the Canadian government in the 
performance of my duty,” replied the officer, with a 
show of authority. 

“No Canadian officer has a duty to perform aboard 


168 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


mj schooner when upon the high seas,” answered John 
Deane in a manner that told the nearby skippers that 
he knew his rights and intended to maintain them. 

“ Ask him how he came out with seizing the Marion 
Grimes off Shelburne harbor, John,” shouted a skipper 
from a passing schooner. 

“ It is my duty to seize your schooner and cargo for 
trespassing in Canadian waters,” replied the officer, 
affecting not to hear the American skipper’s question. 

“ Is a schooner subject to detention and seizure 
twice for the same offense ” persisted John Deane. 
Before the officer could make answer Skipper John 
asked again, “ How can you seize the Nimbus now.? 
She has already been seized for the alleged Liverpool 
offense but not condemned. What are your grounds 
for fresh seizure.? ” 

“ Then I’ll seize you for sailing the high seas with- 
out her papers, a trespass against the laws of nations,” 
quickly declared the other, sure that he had caught the 
wily Yankee this time for the papers of the Nimbus 
were safely aboard the Beetle. 

“ That is a matter that concerns my government 
only. You have no more rights in the case than the 
king of Iceland,” replied John Deane, half contemptu- 
ously because of his growing conviction that the officer 
intended to seize his schooner on any pretext, or with- 
out pretext, if necessary. 

“ There are other reasons why you are subject to 
arrest,” answered the irate officer. “ Kindly let me 
aboard your schooner ! ” 

“ When you catch the Nimbus in a Canadian harbor 
I’ll allow you to come aboard. But under no other cir- 
cumstances have you a right to set your foot on her 
deck, or to impede her free passage upon the high seas, 
or to molest her in any other way,” John Deane an- 


DEFYING THE LION 


169 


swered, leaning over the rail and laying down the law 
in imitation of the officer’s manner. 

While the interview was going on affairs were shap- 
ing themselves among the fleet quite to our satisfaction. 
Thanks to Bill Spurling’s handling of the wheel and 
the cooperation of the American seiners the Nimbus 
was fully a quarter mile from the Beetle, while half a 
dozen schooners sailing back and forth near us were 
interposing a screen between the two craft. Much of 
the time the officers aboard the cutter could not see, 
much less understand, what was taking place with their 
commander except that he was being towed alongside 
the schooner. John Deane, considering that the time 
for action had come, addressed the officer again. 

“ As I size up the situation, sir, you have decided to 
seize the Nimbus on whatever pretext may be found,” 
he said. 

“ That is exactly the case. I mean to carry out 
my purpose, too. I have been insulted as no British 
officer should be. Any further refusal to give up your 
schooner will result more seriously for you,” the officer 
replied. 

“ We’ve already suffered hardship from the Beetle 
and have no taste for more,” replied the skipper with 
a show of feeling. 

“ Y ou’ll get something harder unless you comply 
with my request at once,” the other retorted, mistak- 
ing Skipper John’s tone as a sign of weakening. 

“ Harder.? What do you mean.? ” 

‘‘ Solid shot, that’s what I mean. If I can’t take 
you peaceably I’ll take you by force,” Quigley shouted 
from the boat. 

“ Very well, sir, you are at liberty to begin,” an- 
swered the commander of the Nimbus, Without fur- 
ther words he raised the purse-weight, to which the 


170 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


boat’s painter was made fast, to the rail and lowered 
it overboard. The heavy lead sank quickly, pulling 
the bow of the boat down into the water by its weight. 
Before the officer in the boat was aware what was hap- 
pening John Deane had anchored him and his craft by 
the heavy purse-weight as solidly as if a steel rod bound 
them to the ocean’s bottom. He gave orders for his 
men to go ahead on their oars. The boat made no 
headway. One of the sailors stepped to the bow of 
the boat and tried to raise the weight out of the water ; 
it would have been a hard task even for two men had 
there been room in the boat’s bow for them to stand. 

Quigley was furious. He was in an exasperating 
position. The Nimbus was sailing away from him, he 
was anchored helpless to the Atlantic ocean and power- 
less to prevent the escape of the schooner. He could 
neither go ahead nor free his boat from its anchorage. 
He had been cleverly outwitted, insulted and humili- 
ated in the presence of his sailors and the American 
seining fleet. It was a bold act for John Deane to at- 
tempt his escape by anchoring the commander of the 
Beetle by the schooner’s purse-weight. 

When the irate officer saw that his man could not 
raise the weight he called out, “ Cut the darn’d thing 
and let us get away from here ! ” 

The man whipped a knife from his belt and, leaning 
over the bow of the boat, attempted to cut the weight 
free. Unfortunately for them there was a short chain 
that fastened the painter to the boat’s bow which was 
drawn too far under water to allow him to slash the 
rope. After striking frantically under water for sev- 
eral minutes he rose from his work even redder in the 
face than his commander. 

No sooner had John Deane got rid of his obnoxious 
visitor by dropping the purse-weight over the rail of 
the schooner than he gave orders for all sails to be 


DEFYING THE LION 


171 


set. The crew sprang eagerly to the halyards. In a 
twinkling the outer jibs, the topsails and the staysail 
were in place and drawing full in the breeze that came 
from Cape North. The skipper was at the wheel 
when we passed John Miles. 

“ Run down to the fellow and take him aboard, John. 
Keep him aboard as long as you can without running 
any risk yourself. Delay him all you can. See you 
in Gloucester,” called our skipper to the other com- 
mander. 

With a wave of his hand John Miles signified that 
he would do all in his power to help the young skipper 
whom he had helped train in the mackerel fishery. His 
schooner tacked about and bore off towards the help- 
less commander of the Beetle, Other schooners came 
up and helped to conceal the predicament of the oflS- 
cer from those aboard the cutter. 

To the astonishment of everybody John Deane 
headed his schooner straight for the cutter. When he 
was in hailing distance he turned the wheel a few 
spokes to head the schooner toward the south. Then 
he shouted to the officers at the rail of the cutter, “ The 
Beetle is ordered to proceed south to Scatari, keeping 
half a mile ahead of the Nimbus, Captain Quigley will 
follow shortly in the Harvest Home.^’ 

The command was given in a tone that carried con- 
viction to the listening officers. Immediately he gave 
orders to let out the sheets after issuing his commis- 
sion to the officers aboard the Beetle, He acted in a 
businesslike fashion, as if the matter was already set- 
tled. The officer at the rail turned to the house, pulled 
a signal to the engineroom, and the Beetle, obedient to 
Skipper John’s command, pushed ahead of the Nimbus 
and led her away from the American fleet at Aspey 
Bay. Our sails were set and drawing full, the Nimbus 
was headed toward Scatari and we were homeward 


172 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


bound again, this time with mackerel enough aboard to 
fill over four hundred barrels, just the kind of ballast 
that the schooner needed to give her the best trim for 
sailing. We felt like shouting aloud but dared not 
speak a word for fear our joy would be interpreted by 
the crew of the Beetle, But it seemed too good to be 
true, or to last for long. 

The American fleet was scarcely a mile in our wake 
before we were dressing down the catch of the morning. 
Again the decks of the Nimbus were red with blood. 
Once more a flock of screeching gannets and gulls fol- 
lowed in our wake, greedily swooping into the sea when- 
ever the contents of a gib-keeler were dumped over the 
rail. Back we sailed over the bloody trail that had 
marked the course of the schooner the previous week, 
speeding toward market with two streams of red blood 
dripping from the scuppers and flanking the wake of 
John Deane’s schooner. How happy we were as we 
sailed along that day! What a joy to work and to 
conquer! Bright skies above us, a sea that could not 
hold back the sparkling sunlight upon its waters, a 
favoring breeze that kept the Nimbus on an even keel 
as we dressed the fish and hastened on our way. 

All day long until six at night we stood at the gib- 
keelers knee-deep in mackerel, our fronts blood-red 
with gore, while we heartlessly tore the vitals from the 
fish and threw the disemboweled victims into the gaping 
barrels. All day we sailed southward keeping in the 
wake of the Beetle, while behind us, a white speck on the 
horizon, was a schooner which we knew was the Harvest 
Home, vainly struggling to sail up the rounded orb of 
ocean that separated us from the irate commander of 
the Beetle, 


CHAPTER XIX 


SEINE-BOAT OR SCHOONER? 

W HEN darkness set in we were in the vicinity 
of Flint Island, about a dozen miles from 
Scatari. All the afternoon we had been 
wondering how we would get out of the difficulty in 
which we were placed after requesting the Beetle to 
proceed down the coast half a mile ahead of us. The 
breeze of the afternoon gradually died down from an 
eight-knot breeze to a light one in which we made no 
more than four miles an hour. This allowed the Harv- 
est Home to gain on us since she could sail faster in a 
light breeze than the Nimbus. It would not be many 
hours before we would be overhauled and this time it 
meant capture of some kind or other. After the mack- 
erel had been dressed and the decks cleared again, as 
much as was possible with having a hundred odd barrels 
of the fish stowed against the rail, the skipper had us 
haul the seine-boat alongside and take out everything 
from her, even to row-locks. 

During the afternoon Skipper John and Lew Mills 
had been at work with boards in the forecastle. When 
it began to be dusk and the seine-boat had been cleared 
of all its equipment the skipper had us bring on deck 
the framework of boards that he and his cook had 
been manufacturing. Piece by piece it was passed over 
the rail and set up in place on the rail of the seine- 
boat. When completed it was not unlike an inverted 
M, the framework extending beyond each rail of the 
seine-boat about eight feet. At either end an upright 


174 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


board had been made secure by cross braces nailed near 
the bottom of the framework. At the tops of the two 
uprights smaller boards had been nailed which were 
intended to serve for lantern-boards. This much we 
could make out as the work proceeded. It became 
clearer when Lew Mills appeared from the forecastle 
with two small lanterns. Around one of them he had 
placed the extra red globe that belonged to the schoon- 
er’s sidelights, around the other he had the green 
globe. The lanterns were lighted and set in place, 
with a piece of canvas drawn over them to hide their 
light until it was needed. 

When the device had been completed the skipper ex- 
plained that he intended to use it as a ruse to deceive 
the watch aboard the Beetle and give the Nimbus a 
chance to escape in the darkness. He decided to rig 
up a drift-anchor which, placed astern of the boat — 
since the wind came from the north — would keep the 
lights faced in the direction of the Beetle while the 
schooner was making her escape. While we were 
chuckling over the prospects of outwitting the officials 
before the commander of the cutter should arrive upon 
the scene an idea popped into my head that we were 
needlessly sacrificing a good seine-boat to the cause. 

“ It looks as if you intended to give up a seine-boat 
to save the Nimbus ” I said to Skipper John. 

“Yes, don’t you approve the idea.? We save ten 
thousand dollars by sacrificing a few hundred. It 
looks good to me,” he replied. 

“True enough, but why give up the seine-boat.? 
She’s worth saving after she has done her part in carry- 
ing out your bit of strategy, isn’t she.? ” 

“ Yes. But we cannot save the boat as we did the 
anchor at Halifax. The risk is too great.” 

“ What will you sell the boat to me for, after she is 
used as a decoy for allowing the Nimbus to escape.? ” 


SEINE-BOAT OR SCHOONER? 


175 


“ One thousand dollars,” he answered, laughing. 

“No, I am in earnest. What will you give me a bill 
of sale for provided I do not come in possession of her 
until you have made all the use you wish to deceive the 
cutter? ” 

“ Ten dollars, David. In fact, I’d give her to you 
if I did not believe you were deserving a better gift 
than a castaway boat that will be subject to capture 
by our enemy.” 

“I’ll take her on those terms,” I answered. “You 
will have to make out a bill of sale now, though. Also, 
I’d like a leave of absence from the schooner until I 
get back to Gloucester.” 

“ What kind of a scheme have you got on foot? ” he 
inquired, while the crew stood about laughing at me and 
my crazy maritime venture. 

“ I don’t like to see a good boat like her to go to 
waste,” I replied. “ If you abandon the boat she may 
be seized by any one who comes along. If I can sal- 
vage her it will make just so much more money for my 
college bills. Suppose I remain aboard her. I’ll trust 
to luck that some of the mackerel fleet will pick me 
up and tow me to Gloucester,” for I knew well enough 
that many of the seiners would be passing in a few 
days on the return trip. 

“ You’ll be seized and condemned at Halifax as part 
of the equipment of the Nimbus, my boy, that’s what 
will happen to you,” said George Keene. 

“ Not if I know it, George,” I replied. “ Won’t 
the boat be my own? With a bill of sale in my pocket, 
too? It would be piracy to seize me against my will 
on the high seas. If ’Cate Beers or the revenue cut- 
ter’s officers try it they will hear from ‘ Pitchfork ’ 
Graham, I can tell you.” 

“You are right, ‘Captain’ Graham,” said Bill 
Spurling, siding with my cause mostly because George 


176 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


had taken the opposite view. “No man has a right to 
touch you on the high seas in your own craft. You’ve 
got a clear case and law will back you up.” 

“ That may all be true,” interrupted the skipper, 
thinking only of the risk I would be taking to put afloat 
in an open seine-boat and of his responsibility for my 
safe conduct. “ But I cannot allow you to undertake 
so hare-brained a thing as that, David. Besides, I 
promised your father that I’d look after his boy.” 

“ No, you didn’t, either,” I contradicted ; “ you 
claimed that you had no boys aboard your schooner; 
and after what has happened on the Cape Shore I ask 
you am I a boy or a man.^ ” 

“ You’re a man, David, every inch of you,” he an- 
swered, earnestly. “ There’s all the more reason why 
you should not risk your life for a mere seine-boat.” 

“ Some risk, that ! Right in sight of land, with 
schooners by the dozen passing up and down the coast. 
Skipper John, I’m going in that boat. You’ve agreed 
to sell her to me. You’ll have to lock me in the cabin 
if you keep me away from her.” 

Bill Spurling came to the rescue. “ I think the boy 
has a pretty good idea, skipper,” he said. “ Let him 
go and I’ll go with him, if you’ll let me off. There’s 
little risk for two and we may help some in keeping the 
Beetle from chasing the Nimbus up so sharply.” 

After more talk the affair was settled my way. I 
borrowed ten dollars from George Keene which I paid 
to John Deane, receiving from him a bill of sale of the 
seine-boat. Bill and I took our oil clothes, a jug of 
water, a pail of food that Lew Mills made ready, some 
oars, rope and canvas. We bade good-by to the Nim- 
bus and her crew as we clambered over the side of the 
schooner and were dropped astern. Skipper John 
spoke a kindly “ Good luck, David,” as he took hold of 
my arm when I got into the boat. At a given signal 


SEINE-BOAT OR SCHOONER? 


Ill 


the sidelights of the Nimbus were extinguished while my 
crew and I pulled the canvas from off our own lights. 
A red and a green light were still visible from the deck 
of the Beetle in the direction where the lights of the 
Nimbus had been burning. Bill and I were alone upon 
the ocean. The Nimbus silently tacked to port and 
disappeared from view. 

It was some time before anything happened to me 
and my crew of one. We sat upon the thwart, each 
with an oar in hand keeping the seine-boat headed to- 
ward the retreating Beetle. Dimly to the northward 
the lights of the Harvest Home could be seen as she 
slowly overtook our craft. The Nimbus had been 
swallowed up in the darkness of the night within five 
minutes after casting off our boat. There was nothing 
to be seen but the smoky trail of the Beetle, the lights 
of the Harvest Home, an occasional gleam from the 
light on Flint Island, and the stars overhead. We 
conversed in low tones while we waited for something to 
happen. 

We judged that the Beetle would steam southward 
for a time before her officers would decide that the 
schooner’s lights astern of her were not keeping proper 
pace with the progress of the cutter. Our conjecture 
was correct. After twenty minutes or so when, we 
felt sure, the Nimbus was far enough away to escape 
immediate detection, the Beetle was seen to turn about 
slowly, back to where our seine-boat slowly rose and 
fell on the waves. She came back leisurely, apparently 
having no anxiety for the safety of the Nimbus since 
our lights were visible and the lights of the other 
schooner were getting nearer all the time. 

The officers upon the bridge of the Beetle were 
startled out of measure when they hailed what they 
supposed was a healthy American fishing schooner only 
to discover neither hull nor sails nor crew. They were 


178 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


on the lookout with night glasses. When the cutter 
got close alongside our craft an officer hailed us from 
the bridge. 

“ Hello, below there ! What’s up.^^ Where is the 
Nimbus? What are you doing here.^ ” all the questions 
given in an anxious tone. 

“ Hello, yourself,” I replied, as if I was as innocent 
of the Beetle and her mission as a man from Hong 
Kong. 

“ What craft is that.^ ” came out of the darkness. 

‘‘ This is the Alders and Hemlock,'^ I replied, “ from 
Cow Bay. We’re night fishing for mackerel. Keep 
off or you’ll run into our nets,” I shouted excitedly as 
the cutter came nearer. “ Put your wheel over and 
keep out of those nets. Can’t you see our lights.^ 
What’s the use to put up lights only to be run down by 
such blank landlubbers as you ! ” I yelled at them as 
if in desperation that our fishing ventures were being 
ruined by the approaching cutter. 

The officer gave a command to the man at the wheel. 
Before the cutter pulled away he inquired again, “ Seen 
anything of a schooner passing near here just now.^ ” 

“ Aye, aye, sir,” I responded truthfully and tactfully, 
“one came from the northward, then jibed over and 
stood back toward Cape Smoke. Think I can see her 
lights now, headed toward us. What’s the racket ” 

“ Oh, nothing. Just looking to pick up a schooner, 
that was all. Thank you,” and the Beetle continued 
slowly toward the oncoming Harvest Home, 

They were scarcely a cable-length away when I sum- 
moned my crew to action. 

“ Come on, now. Bill, we’ve got to get busy. Let’s 
dump this tomfoolery stuff overboard and get out of 
the way. Put an oar handle under the framework on 
your side and I’ll take care of this. Say when you’re 
ready. Over she goes.” Our combined efforts lifted 


SEINE-BOAT OR SCHOONER? 


179 


the framework from the rails where it had been nailed 
only too securely by the skipper and Lew Mills. It fell 
with a crash forward, the lanterns pitched into the sea 
and we dumped the framework over the rails. 

“ Now cut that drag-anchor away. We’ll pull in- 
shore a mile or two before the other fellows find out who 
each other is. There’ll be some unhealthy talk aboard 
the cutter when old Quigley finds that the Nimbus has 
outwitted the Beetle again.” 

We seated ourselves at the oars and pulled the boat 
lustily toward Cow Bay. The seine-boat had been 
stripped of everything in way of equipment, so we made 
good headway with only a light breeze stirring. All 
the time we kept a sharp lookout on the lights of the 
cutter and schooner. It was impossible for us to tell 
what took place when the two craft met and Quigley 
heard from his officers that the Nimbus had eluded their 
vigilance. 

The lights of both craft were visible as the Beetle 
turned south again and steamed back at full speed to 
the spot where the phantom Alders and Hemlock had 
been netting mackerel. They raced past us while we 
were a mile away from them inshore. All the time we 
pulled away at the oars and laughed at them. 

The Beetle, after passing beyond our mooring point 
a mile, turned back to meet the Harvest Home near the 
scene of our late interview. They were too far off for 
us to hear any conversation, too near to feel sure that 
we would escape detection. After a time — and we 
judged they were making plans about the pursuit of 
the Nimbus — ^ the Beetle steamed away in the direc- 
tion of Scatari. The Harvest Home tacked and we 
lost her lights for the night. 

“ They have divided the sea between them,” said Bill. 
“ The Beetle will run outside a little way hoping to 
come across the Nimbus somewhere off shore at day- 


180 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


break. The schooner will look around here for a while. 
When ’Cate Beers hears that the Alders and Hemlock 
is night fishing for mackerel he won’t be fooled so easily 
as the oflScer of the cutter was. We won’t be dis- 
turbed again to-night, so you might as well turn in 
while I stand watch. It’s ten now. I’U stand until 
one, then call you. We’re likely to have a busy day 
to-morrow.” 

Letting my crew take the first watch, quite as a 
skipper should, I curled myself up in the bottom of the 
boat to sleep. 


CHAPTER XX 


THE BATTLE OF COW BAY 

W HEN I awoke it was broad daylight. The 
sun was just rising out of the eastern 
waters, the sea was calm and there was no 
sign of cutter or schooner on the horizon. Bill Spur- 
ling sat on the thwart above me where he had remained 
during the night. The rascal ! He did stand watch 
until one o’clock, as he promised, then considerately 
forgot to call me for the remainder of the night. I 
upbraided him sharply for disobeying orders, as a com- 
mander should, and in excuse for his offense he offered 
the incriminating apology that he must have ‘‘ bobbed 
a kink ” on the thwart. As a matter of fact he had 
not closed his eyes for the night, and one of them a 
“ game ” eye which always gave the appearance of 
needing more rest than his well one. 

After performing my morning ablutions by scoop- 
ing up several handfuls of the Atlantic ocean I wiped 
the brine from my eyes with a handkerchief that would 
have shocked Mother Graham’s regard for things sani- 
tary had she seen it. To my credit let it be said that 
I did rinse out the handkerchief and spread it on the 
thwart to dry, since it was evident this piece of cloth 
would have to serve me in a double capacity until we 
should reach port again. 

“ It looks like a fine day for the crew of the Alders 
and Hemlock to continue their mackerel fishing,” I 
said to Bill after my appearance had been more in the 
181 


182 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


keeping of the commander of a craft. “ Suppose you 
see what there is for breakfast. I’m ready to be sum- 
moned at the call for the first gang this morning.” 

We overhauled the pail of food that Lew Mills had 
provided for our needs, selected a portion of its goodly 
store and, sitting opposite each other on the thwart, 
we munched and fletcherized the food in the absence of 
hot coffee. With the breakfast concluded, no decks to 
be washed down, no watches to stand, nothing to do but 
await the turn of events and the coming of a breeze, we 
gave ourselves up to the occupation of self-entertain- 
ment. 

“ It was mighty good of you to come to my rescue 
last night. Bill,” I ventured, for I realized how thought- 
ful he had been and wished him to know that I appre- 
ciated his act. “ It looked as if I was getting ready to 
make a scene aboard the Nimbus. You saved both the 
skipper and myself. Besides it would be lonesome sit- 
ting here on the thwart and waiting for something to 
turn up. A fellow appreciates any kind of company 
in a case like this.” 

‘‘ Yes, I suppose so,” drawled Bill between puffs at 
his pipe, ‘‘ it would be monotonous, no doubt,” and I 
failed to understand why he should smile to himself 
quietly. 

Our principal concern was not ourselves but the fate 
of the schooner. During the early hours of the morn- 
ing the wind continued light so she would have to get 
away during the darkness, if she escaped at all. Per- 
haps with the return of daylight she had fallen a help- 
less captive of the Beetle. The absence of both cutter 
and schooner confirmed our fears that the worst had 
befallen the Nimbus and her valiant skipper. 

The hours dragged along slowly. It was not until 
mid-forenoon that our fears were dispelled. We made 
out a schooner coming from the vicinity of Flint Island, 


THE BATTLE OF COW BAY 


183 


slowly swinging along in the light wind. It required 
only a glance at the schooner for Bill Spurling to iden- 
tify her as the Harvest Home, 

‘‘ I’ve looked for her too many times in thick-o’-fog 
on the banks, boy, not to know how she looks. I could 
shut my eyes and draw a picture of her that would 
stand up and sail away if you threw it in the water. 
We’ll have a chance to chat with the boys from home 
for a spell.” 

The boys were all there at the schooner’s rail when 
the Harvest Home got within hailing distance of us, 
six of the crew being fellows from Comberton whom 
we had known for years. Bill and I remained seated 
on the thwart. Bill smoking his T D and I listlessly 
looking over the crew of the schooner. They were the 
first to hail us. Long before the schooner got within 
hailing distance we and our boat were considered an 
important discovery for we could make out a man with 
glasses spying us out and reporting to the others who 
we were. 

‘‘Hello, boys,” called out Frank Willis, who hailed 
from the head-of-the-river district at home, “ how goes 
it.?^ ” He spoke as if he would say more but did not 
dare for fear his skipper would disapprove. 

“ Hello, Willis,” answered Bill, taking the T D from 
his mouth, “how goes it with yourself.^ How many 
‘ headers ’ have you got aboard ? ” Bill’s reply was 
given with the unconcern of a man seated comfortably 
on the quarter deck of a schooner bound for home with 
a full fare. 

“ Oh, we’ve got about three hundred in the hold and 
fifty on deck,” answered the other. 

I did not enter into the conversation since it would 
be beneath my dignity to talk with men below my offi- 
cial rank; it would be time for me when the captain 
of the Harvest Home should take up the conversation. 


184 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


I did wave niy hand to several of the fellows at the rail 
in answer to their rather familiar greeting of “ Hello, 
Pitch, how’s the fishing this morning? ” and pointed 
significantly at the bottom of the empty seine-boat. 

Captain Beers, who was standing at the wheel, spoke 
to Bill as the schooner came abreast us. “ Hello, Bill, 
what ye doin’ here? ” He could not resist the tempta- 
tion to learn as much as possible concerning the events 
of the night before. 

“ We were ‘ owling ’ last night and made a set here,” 
Bill lied very broadly. “We’re, waiting for the 
schooner to pick us up.” 

Everybody, including Beers, had to smile at Bill’s 
reply. 

“ Take a rope. Bill, and come aboard,” said Beers. 

Bill looked at me, then turned to the commander of 
the Harvest Home. 

“ Thanks, cap’n, we’re in no hurry. I guess we’ll 
wait around a little longer. Something may turn up 
during the day.” 

The schooner put about immediately and sailed 
southward. We watched her for a couple of hours. 
At the end of the time Bill espied a flag flying from her 
maintopmast. 

“ It’s a signal of some kind. My guess is that she 
is signaling to the Beetle somewhere that she has made 
a discovery.” 

“ Then if you are right she’ll turn back shortly and 
we’ll see the smoke of the Beetle on the horizon within 
an hour,” I ventured. “ Everything is going finely. 
Bill. They haven’t found the Nimbus yet. We must 
hold them up here for the rest of the day, if we can, and 
let John Deane get out into the Atlantic beyond all 
possibility of being overhauled.” 

A sea-breeze set in about noon. The sky became 
overcast and Bill predicted we would have an unpleas- 


THE BATTLE OF COW BAY 


185 


ant time aboard the seine-boat another night. The 
breeze was fair for the quick return of the Harvest 
Home to the place where we were drifting about. 

During the absence of the Harvest Home we rigged 
up an oar for a mast in the seine-boat and fastened the 
piece of canvas to it for a sail. Lew Mills had thrown 
the canvas aboard the boat to serve as a covering from 
rough weather and rain; but it served us well for a 
make-shift sail. Bill took the steering oar while I 
reclined on a forward thwart tending the sheet of the 
sail. With the coming of a sea-breeze our seine-boat 
made good speed under her spread of canvas. This 
skipping over the waters in the light seine-boat was the 
best fun of the whole trip. We headed the boat south- 
ward and met the oncoming Harvest Home within an 
hour of the hoisting of the flag at her topmasthead. 
In the meanwhile the telltale smoke from the Beetle'' s 
smokestack smirched across the horizon in answer to 
the signal from Beers. The cutter was headed toward 
Cow Bay again, doubtless deluded by the hope that 
the Harvest Home had found the shadowy Nimbus, 
now an easy captive, somewhere in the vicinity. 

The Harvest Home kept in the offing until the 
arrival of the revenue cutter ; then Captain Beers 
got into his dory and rowed out to intercept the 
Beetle. 

“ Quite chummy, aren’t they ? ” Bill commented as 
Beers mounted to the deck of the cutter. 

The Beetle headed straight for the seine-boat, and 
we kept the boat on her course toward Scatari. When 
she was nearly alongside we heard the clang of the 
bell in the engineroom signaling for the cutter to slow 
down. Captain Quigley leaned over the rail and called 
out to us, “ Stand by to catch the rope. Let your 
boat come up into the wind, there ! ” as if his mere com- 
mand had power to check the tides of Menadon strait. 


186 SKIPPER JOHN OE THE KIMBUS 


Bill was still at the steering oar. Instead of let- 
ting the boat come up into the wind in accordance with 
Quigley’s orders he kept her off and sailed away from 
the cutter’s side. Quigley was furious. 

The engineroom bell clanged again, the Beetle got 
under way and slowly turned about to come up with us 
again. While the cutter was turning Bill maneuvered 
the seine-boat into the wind so that we were a couple of 
hundred yards to leeward before the cutter got her 
course and headway. Then as she came on toward us 
Bill again changed his course and, to the surprise of all, 
headed the boat directly at the Beetle. We bowled 
along under full canvas sailing through the water as 
only a light seine-boat can. When we were within a 
hundred feet of the cutter my efficient helmsman called 
upon me to pull in the sheet while he jammed his long 
oar sharply to port and the boat sped out from under 
the very bow of the cutter just when they were ex- 
pecting we would be run down. The bell of the Beetle 
clanged again, the cutter slowed down. The irate 
commander shook his fist in our direction as we sped 
away from him. 

“ Bring that boat alongside,” he yelled to us, “ or 
I’ll sink your craft with solid shot.” 

Let go your solid shot, you bandy-legged English- 
man,” I yelled back. “ You couldn’t hit the broad side 
of Cow Bay with your old guns.” 

Quigley was no longer to be trifled with. He gave a 
sharp order to his crew. We saw some of them hasten 
to the stern of the Beetle^ and remove the canvas cover- 
ing from one of the guns. Upon seeing this Bill turned 
the boat back toward the cutter, thereby deceiving my- 
self and those aboard the cutter. 

“ What are you doing.? ” I objected, thinking he 
was to surrender to the officer. 

“ We’ll keep close under the Beetle,*^ he replied in a, 


THE BATTLE OF COW BAY 


187 


low tone, “ then they will be unable to fire upon us with 
their guns.” 

As the seine-boat neared the cutter a sailor stood 
amidships preparing a coil of rope to heave to us. 

“ Make fast to this rope,” commanded Quigley. 

We were eighty feet from the Beetle when the sailor 
stepped back from the rail before sending the coil spin- 
ning and uncoiling through the air in our direction. 
True as a pistol shot it sped to its mark, striking our 
boat about four feet astern of where I was seated, the 
end of the rope reaching across the boat to the farther 
rail. There was ample time for me to catch the rope 
but I did not act with my accustomed alacrity that 
morning. Scramble as I would — after I had hesi- 
tated until it was too late — I succeeded only in sprawl- 
ing out in the bottom of the boat just as the end of the 
rope slid off the rail out of my reach. 

There is a limit to most everything. For twenty- 
four hours the commander of the Beetle had been bam- 
boozled by the captain and crew of the Nimbus. When 
I obviously failed to catch the rope after it had been 
thrown so scientifically Captain Quigley lost all that 
may have been left of his fast disappearing self-com- 
posure. He shouted to the men at the guns, to the 
men in the wheel-house and to others of his officers and 
crew about deck. 

“ Shoot the boat ! Ram her ! Sink her ! Run her 
down some way or other. I’m sick of the whole darn’d 
Yankee lot of them! ” 

It probably did not abate his anger at all to glance 
down in the boat and notice the position of my hand as 
I rose from the bottom of the boat. Mother Graham 
would have been shocked far beyond the handkerchief 
shock of the morning had she seen her son deport him- 
self so unseemly toward the commander of Her Ma- 
jesty’s revenue cutter. 


18$ SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NlMBVS 


Before the gunners could train their guns on us or 
the Beetle could get under headway again Bill shot the 
boat into the wind and we passed her bow to the star- 
board side, a breach of maritime etiquette that even 
mackerel seiners rarely practice upon another of their 
own kind. 

“ Crossing our bows ! ” thundered the infuriated 
commander to the man at the wheel of the Beetle as if 
he was responsible for the maneuver. “ What in the 
name of Gibraltar Hill are you standing there twirling 
those spokes and letting that little cat-boat cross the 
bows of a British warship for.'^ Do something! Run 
her down! Get away from the wheel! Let some boy 
handle this ship, he’d do better than has been done for 
the past ten days.” 

The man at the wheel withdrew from his place and 
another stepped into the house. The bell clanged, the 
cutter started forward full speed ahead. Not quick 
enough for Bill, however, for he dexterously turned the 
seine-boat about and ran across the bows of the cutter 
a second time. Bill was having the time of his life and 
I, the commander and owner of the boat, enjoyed every 
moment of the time we were using to delay the Beetle 
in the waters of Cow Bay. We were too close under 
the cutter’s side for the guns to be served upon us. 
The impatient commander could not await until the 
cutter got away from us. He called sharply to his 
crew, “ Man the boat ! ” 

The cutter’s big boat was lowered. Quigley took 
position in the stern, four men pulled at the oars and a 
fifth sat in the bow. They pulled toward us but we 
easily outdistanced them by putting about and run- 
ning before the wind. Upon seeing this Quigley 
shouted for his gun crew to fire upon us. We saw the 
men at the gun put in the shot. Then, while they 
were conversing about some detail of the affair. Bill 


THE BATTLE OF COW BAY 


189 


judiciously put our boat in line with that of the cutter. 
A shot followed but it struck the waters of Cow Bay a 
couple of hundred feet away from us. Before there 
was time for a second shot we had the seine-boat near 
the other and held her there by taking short tacks. 
We felt little apprehension for our own safety because 
it was evident, when a second shot struck no closer to 
us, that the gunners feared that their shots would strike 
too close to their commander’s boat. 

After chasing us about for half an hour Quigley de- 
sisted from further pursuit and put up an oar to have 
the cutter pick up his boat. Instead of being picked 
up Quigley, now fairly beside himself with rage, or- 
dered out other boats. 

Put off the other boats ! ” he called as the cutter 
came up. “Surround them! Sink them if they offer 
resistance ! ” 

Two other boats were lowered from the cutter’s side. 
While they were getting under way for a new campaign 
we had time to look about us. The Beetle was a cable- 
length or so to our leeward. The Harvest Home^ 
which had not entered the affray except as Beers had 
informed Quigley who we were, jogged back and forth 
a half mile away content to let Quigley handle his own 
affair. When the other boats came up toward us Bill 
circled about them and sailed back toward the Beetle, 
running before the wind. We passed close by Quigley’s 
boat. He tried in vain to intercept our course but 
my helmsman was too wily for him. Pretending that 
he would run the seine-boat past the bow of the cutter’s 
boat Bill held her to the course until we were fairly 
upon the other boat when he swung the oar around, 
brought the seine-boat suddenly on the other tack and 
we passed within a dozen feet of the helpless, raging 
captain in the stern. Both my hands were free this 
time. Oh, Mother Graham, what a boy you brought 


190 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


up ! I’m sure Quigley could have bitten a piece out of 
me anywhere had he been able to get hold of me. All 
the while his sailors were pulling lustily on their oars in 
full view of the disreputable Yankee who was taking un- 
seemly liberties with their commander. 

Now the three boats and the Beetle were in full pur- 
suit of the Alders and Hemlock. It is doubtful if the 
naval annals of the great empire furnish a more thril- 
ling incident — from our point of view — than was 
given that afternoon when our denatured cat-boat led 
the pursuing fleet in the riot of circles, tacks, jibings 
and wing-outs as we sailed here and there about Cow 
Bay. At times we were near enough to smell the 
breath of the enemy and hear the blasphemous trumpet- 
ings of the infuriated leader of the pursuing fleet. 
The cordon of boats would gather about us with appa- 
rent success only to be outmaneuvered by the quick 
wit and seamanship of Bill Spurling. Once I saw Bill 
take a schooner into White Haven in a gale of wind, 
which was a masterly trick of seamanship; but the ex- 
ploit of the afternoon was a whole volume of lessons in 
the science of handling a small boat in the presence of 
others. Several times we were all but cornered — if 
the sea has corners — when by a quick turn the seine- 
boat would elude the boats that were closing in on all 
sides. Always on these occasions the ill-bred owner of 
the seine-boat, seated comfortably where he could 
handle the sheet, made sarcastic and scathing remarks 
befitting the occasion. No bull fighter ever practiced 
his wiles upon the infuriated beasts of the arena with 
more skill and daring than Bill Spurling employed in 
his dazzling tricks with the steering oar that always re- 
sulted in timely, if close, escapes from the clutches of 
our pursuers. 

At last, with the cooperation of the Beetle, we were 
fairly cornered with no apparent loop-hole for escape. 


THE BATTLE OF COW BAY 


191 


Captain Quigley gave orders to the men in his boat to 
ram the seine-boat. Bill did his best to avert a col- 
lision, but to no avail. As the cutter’s boat came bows 
on toward our boat I seized an oar and swung a blow at 
the man in the bow. The blow took effect, as I in- 
tended it should, striking down the fellow’s upraised 
arm and hitting him sharply on the head. He crumpled 
up in the bow of his boat as if his day’s work was done, 
as it was. I dropped the oar quickly and seized the 
bow of the on-coming boat in time to fend off the force 
of the blow. Little harm was done to our boat, while 
the impetus from stopping the cutter’s boat gave us a 
start in getting away. Not before I could give Quig- 
ley a piece of my mind. 

“ Next time you try that on me, sir. I’ll split your 
head open instead of your man’s. Don’t you forget 
that, you lobster-faced bully ! I’m in my own boat, 
doing you no harm, and an American citizen. You’d 
better keep off! Any further attempts to take this 
boat and I’ll smash the first one who gets in range of 
my oar.” I yelled this at him as we were parting com- 
pany. 

Right ahead of us was another of the cutter’s boats 
that I had not seen. Quigley shouted for them to in- 
tercept our boat at any cost. Very foolishly they 
pulled in front of the seine-boat leaving Bill no chance 
to escape unless he ran them down. Good old Bill was 
game to the last but he did not want to get into further 
trouble. He started to tack the boat about but I 
would have none of it. 

“ Steady there at the wheel ! ” I called out sharply. 
“ Keep to your course ! It’s their lookout ; let them 
get out the way I ” 

The seine-boat under good headway crashed into the 
other boat, breaking in the rail and knocking it over so 
completely that all the men aboard were thrown in a 


192 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


heap in the lee scuppers, if boats have lee scuppers. 
Two of them were thrown into the sea but held fast to 
the side of the boat. We passed on by them without 
offer of assistance. 

“ Perhaps you’ll know enough in time to let innocent 
fishermen alone,” I called after them. But they did 
not. It takes a long time to convince a Britisher that 
he should desist from a thing he has undertaken to carry 
through. Two of their boats were now hors de combat, 
since one was capsized and its crew drenched, while in 
the bow of another was a man whose head needed re- 
pairing. Quigley signaled for the cutter to pick up 
the boats. 

“ Now what are the idiots going to do? ” I inquired 
of Bill. 

“ Solid shot for us, my boy, with old Quigley 
handling the guns,” he answered. “ You have struck 
a British sailor, capsized and damaged a British boat 
and threatened bodily harm to the commander of a 
British warship. It’s surrender or solid shot for us.” 

“How about yourself, Bill?” I inquired, thinking 
no longer of the seine-boat or of my own welfare but 
anxious not to put my friend into further jeopardy of 
life or limb. 

“ Count me in to the finish, David. I’ve served 
under a good many skippers in my life but I never got 
mixed up with two such hellyuns as you and John 
Deane. I only wish the skipper could see this per- 
formance, my boy. I think, leaving all jesting aside, 
that we’d better pull alongside the Harvest Home. 
’Cate Beers is aboard the Beetle and I know most of 
the crew of the schooner will stand with us against the 
Britisher, at least. But mind me, David; you keep 
your yawp shut when I’m talking with ’Cate Beers and 
his men. He has no use for you any more than he has 
for John Deane.” 


THE BATTLE OF COW BAY 


193 


It was quite a different Quigley who boarded the 
Harvest Home half an hour later. He boarded the 
schooner from the starboard side, opposite from where 
our seine-boat was made fast to the boat-boom. Be- 
fore his arrival Bill had had a talk with Beers, whom 
he found aboard the schooner. Bill had secured from 
me the bill of sale of the seine-boat and had explained 
our tactics to the skipper of the Harvest Home. Quig- 
ley joined Bill and Captain Beers at the wheel-box. 
Bill and Beers did most of the talking, for Beers saw 
at a glance of the paper how illegal had been the at- 
tempt of the cutter to seize our seine-boat or to lay 
claims against the occupants of the boat. The details 
of the conversation Bill related to me later, for I had 
chosen to remain in my own boat alongside the schooner. 

Even Beers had a word that was favorable to my 
cause, although I do not say favorable to my reputa- 
tion. In the course of the conversation Captain Quig- 
ley inquired who I was anyway and why should the 
skipper of the Nimbus entrust the execution of such a 
wild project to the youngest of his crew. 

“ The young fellow and Deane are sort of chums,” 
Beers said in explanation. “ They have lived together 
for half a dozen years. Deane showed him how to box 
and I’m blessed if the fellow didn’t clean up the whole 
American fleet with the gloves at Liverpool harbor. 
Nobody can tell what Deane would have done if they 
had let him loose among the crowd. This boy,” he 
continued, pointing in my direction, ‘‘ is a regular 
human devil when he gets started, not afraid of any- 
thing that walks or flies or swims. There’s no telling 
what would happen, sir, if you tried to arrest him — 
bloodshed as likely as not and he’d take care his own 
wasn’t spilt first.” 

‘‘ Human devil ! ” exclaimed the captain ; ‘‘ he’s an 
inhuman devil, if there ever was one, what they call a 


194) SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


Canadian loupcervier. What’s he hanging around 
Cow Bay for if he owns the boat and has got provisions 
aboard? ” 

“ Just to delay you, to keep you here instead of 
scouring the seas for the Nimbus. He and the other 
skipper are the slickest pair of piratical villains you 
ever heard tell of,” Beers answered in way of eulogiz- 
ing two of his Comberton neighbors. 

“ Delay ! ” the captain shouted, raging in an instant 
at the thought of how completely he had been duped. 
“ Delay is the game, is it ? Damme, we’ll see ! Good 
day, sir,” he said, turning to Beers. ‘‘ I’ll communi- 
cate with you from Halifax.” 

He rushed to the side of the schooner and dropped 
into the boat. Never was the Beetle gotten under way 
in shorter order, never did she shove her bows more 
spitefully into the waves than under the command of 
the disgusted Quigley. 

That night Bill and I ran the seine-boat in the lee 
of Scatari Island and beached her. We slept ashore 
under the protection of the canvas that had served us 
so handsomely for a sail during the exciting moments 
of the afternoon’s pursuit. In the morning we put off 
again, intercepted a passing Gloucester schooner and 
were taken aboard, with the seine-boat in tow. Five 
days later we rounded East Point and pulled into the 
harbor where we found that the Nimbus had preceded 
us by twenty-four hours. My greatest source of sat- 
isfaction was the possession of a good seine-boat, be- 
sides my share of one hundred and four dollars in the 
Cape Shore catch. Bill’s satisfaction came in relat- 
ing to his shipmates of the schooner Nimbus the excit- 
ing events of the marine battle of Cow Bay. 


CHAPTER XXI 


A STERN CHASE 

D uring the six weeks that followed the event- 
ful Cape Shore trip life aboard the Nimbus 
resolved itself into quiet, uneventful days that 
mackerel seiners usually find in July. It is a time fol- 
lowing the spawning season when the schools of mackerel 
have not assembled in large numbers preparatory to 
the great fall migration southward and when smaller 
bodies of the fish listlessly seek their food in the differ- 
ent parts of the Gulf of Maine. At these times one 
cannot tell where the mackerel are ; they may be found 
off Chatham and the South Shoals, on George’s Bank, 
along the Maine coast or well within the confines of the 
Bay of Fundy. It is a time when the fleet sails about 
a great deal searching for the fish. The relaxation after 
the strenuous days of the spring fishery was welcome 
to our crew. There were times when work pressed upon 
us in a way that reminded us of Cape Breton days, yet 
the busier spells were of short duration. 

There came a day in mid- July when we made a great 
“ killing.” We were cruising at the time off the Isles 
of Shoals when suddenly the quiet waters parted for the 
schooling mackerel. Once more we sprang to the oars. 
The seas yielded their treasure in abundance to the 
young skipper and the deck was alive with the prized 
captives. We carried them as they lay on the deck to 
T wharf. Early the next morning we bailed out two 
hundred barrels of mackerel as fresh as the most aristo- 
cratic of Puritan tastes could desire. Before the eve- 
195 


196 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


ning had set in the Nimbus was again with the school- 
ing fish. Night brought wind and storm in its wake 
but not until we had taken another hundred barrels of 
fish from the ruffling seas. 

Such lucky catches in the midst of the barren season 
brought John Deane again into prominence and marked 
him as the probable winner of the Comberton prize and 
high-liner of the fleet. Others made good catches dur- 
ing the month, Captain Beers of the Harvest Home 
being among the more fortunate skippers of the fleet. 
Yet nobody except persons connected with Hinds’ ves- 
sels ventured to suggest that Beers was at all likely to 
outstrip John Deane in the race for the Comberton 
prize. Word did reach some members of our crew that 
Captain Hinds already was proclaiming how ’Cate Beers 
would be high-liner from Comberton. Several events 
happened during the month that led us to believe that 
Hinds and Beers were determined to win from Deane 
by fair means if at all probable, by foul means if neces- 
sary to accomplish their purpose. 

We first noticed a spirit of vindictiveness toward our 
schooner at the Isles of Shoals. News of our good 
catches brought together the other seiners, among them 
the Harvest Home. One evening the fleet was well 
bunched together, jogging back and forth as they 
watched some schools of kyacks — for everybody hoped 
to discover mackerel among the kyacks. The Harvest 
Homey with ’Cate Beers at the wheel, bore down upon the 
Nimbus while she was on the starboard tack, and there- 
fore had the right of way, and insolently sailed across 
her bows. Our helmsman put the wheel hard up to 
escape collision with the seine-boat of the Harvest 
Home that was towed astern. By so doing he jibed the 
schooner over on the other tack. No harm was done, 
to be sure, and we might pursue the mackerel as well 
on one tack as the other. Yet the insolence of the trick 


A STERN CHASE 


197 


was too evident to excuse it as due to thoughtlessness. 
Skippers of nearby schooners noticed Beers cutting 
across our bows and not a few of them made comments 
that expressed their feelings at the breach of etiquette. 
The affair caused an outburst of profanity and threat- 
ening from our crew, bawled in tones loud enough to be 
heard over the seas. But the vehemence of mouthy pro- 
testation could not undo the insult that had been heaped 
upon us and our young skipper. 

The offense might have been brooked had not the 
same thing been repeated the following morning under 
similar conditions. The Harvest Home bore down upon 
the Nimbus as she was close-hauled to the wind. The 
helmsman again gave way before the intruder, turning 
the bow of the Nimbus off her course and letting the 
main-sheet go with a bang. Skipper John was at the 
cross-trees watching for schooling fish and did not no- 
tice that his schooner had given way before that of his 
rival until it was too late to prevent it. As the Harvest 
Home slowly bore across our bows he called down to 
the man at the wheel of the Harvest Home in a voice 
shaking with emotion, 

“ Don’t ever try that trick again, ’Cate Beers ! I 
shall not be responsible for what happens if you do.” 

It was not ’Cate Beers’ intention to receive topmast 
orders from this young skipper. On the evening of the 
same day we were out in our seine-boat watching a 
school of fish and vainly endeavoring to get into posi- 
tion to make a set. The fleet — a dozen sails — were 
all in the neighborhood. Several other boats were out, 
so that careful steering was required to prevent a col- 
lision. In the midst of the maneuvering the Harvest 
Home came up and deliberately sailed through the school 
of fish that we were trying to take. Such things happen 
among seiners but they are of rare occurrence when 
done deliberately. We were furious with rage but help- 


198 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


less in our fury. One of the crew of the Harvest Home 
called out with an indifference that indicated how pre- 
meditated the act had been, “ Excuse us, skipper, we 
didn’t notice your little school.” 

Self-restraint may be a virtue in a mackerel schooner 
commander but we were of the opinion that one could 
exercise too much patience at times. However much we 
wished our skipper to do something in vindication of 
the injustice and insults that ’Cate Beers heaped upon 
him at every opportunity we knew well enough that 
he had his own thoughts and plans, that time would vin- 
dicate him and punish his rival. But we were not pre- 
pared for the fullness of the measure of vindication 
when it came, which was not until we had cruised for 
weeks in the Great North Bay. 

A pleasing change came one morning late in July. 
The fleet had been cruising together for a week vainly 
seeking the body of mackerel. We were off Province- 
town at the time, for a few mackerel had been caught 
in the Cape traps indicating that there might be larger 
quantities of the fish in the vicinity. On this occasion 
there was nothing to show that ’Cate Beers was on the 
war-path except that we habitually regarded him in 
that mood. It was no surprise to us, then, when his 
schooner, with a seine-boat in tow, repeated the Isles 
of Shoals trick and bore down upon the Nimbus when 
she was close-hauled to the wind. Ranny MacDonald 
was at the wheel. When he saw the on-coming schooner 
he called down the companionway to the skipper, “ The 
old hellyun is up to his tricks again ! ” Scarcely were 
the words out of his mouth when the skipper called back, 
‘‘ Hold your ship to her course or I’ll throw you over- 
board ! ” 

Ranny needed no such warning from his skipper. He 
held the wheel firmly until, with a leap, the skipper was 
out of the cabin and at the wheel. The Harvest Home 


A STERN CHASE 


199 


was proceeding leisurely across the bows of the Nimbus, 
She was far enough ahead not to be in danger of being 
struck herself but matters looked grave for the seine- 
boat and seine that were being towed astern. The 
schooner passed, clearing our bowsprit by fifty feet or 
more. The seine-boat and its cargo were less fortu- 
nate. By a turn of the wheel the boat could have been 
saved. ’Cate Beers was watching and expecting the 
Nimbus would avoid striking his seine-boat as usual. 
John Deane held the wheel without moving a spoke. 
The bows of the Nimbus crashed full into the sides of 
the frail seine-boat just as Beers shouted and waved his 
arms for us to avoid it. There was nothing left but a 
wrecked boat and a seine that was hopelessly entangled. 
The financial loss of the boat and her fixings was a 
small matter in contrast with the chagrin that the com- 
mander and crew of the Harvest Home suffered. They 
put into Gloucester to repair damages ; but their com- 
ing had been heralded by telephone from Provincetown 
by skippers of the fleet who were in no mood to let Beers 
invent a story to cover his chagrin. 

Thereafter Beers never ceased to molest, never 
stopped from pursuing the Nimbus by night as by day. 
It was a long chase that John Deane gave him, for the 
Nimbus eluded the pursuing Harvest Home on many a 
dark night leaving behind only a dissolving wake. Al- 
ways the indefatigable Beers, with persistence worthy of 
better deeds, found us out and kept up the pursuit, 
watching ever for a chance to outsail our schooner in 
the chase for mackerel, to break up our schools of fish 
and to molest us furtively and openly as opportunity 
afforded and his ingenuity could devise. 

We were not surprised one morning to find a seine- 
boat missing, the painter having been cut with a sharp 
knife. We scoured the neighboring seas for half a day 
before we found the rim of the rail showing above the 


wo SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


waves. Two big holes in the boat’s bottom indicated 
clearly where the fifty-pound purse-weights had been 
hurled through the frail bottom before the boat had 
been abandoned by Beers’ crowd of thieving rowdies — 
for his was the only schooner in the vicinity on the 
night of the theft. 

With the coming of August the fleet gave up their 
attempt to find mackerel in the New England waters and 
prepared for the long trip to the Gulf of St. Lawrence. 
For the second time during the season the Nimbus put 
into Comberton to lay in a stock of provisions and pre- 
pare the schooner for the hard trip ahead. Of course 
the Harvest Home followed her into port. 


CHAPTER XXII 


A FAIR EXCHANGE 

^ ^"r"^AVID, run up to the store and get three more 
I m flat brushes, four inches wide,” Captain 
^ Deane called out to me in the mid-afternoon. 
‘‘ We must get this side of the schooner done before 
night comes on, if possible, so hurrj.” 

Mj hands were begrimed with mud and paint for the 
crew were scraping and painting the hull of the Nimbus. 
The schooner had been beached on a gravelly shore 
at full tide and the crew, during the few days that we 
remained at Comberton, were putting her in first class 
condition in anticipation of the long cruise to the North 
Bay. Since we were about to embark for regions 
where the Nimbus would be deprived of the privilege of 
shelter from storms except as she would run a risk of 
being taken by Canadian authorities within the three- 
mile limit, there was need of stocking her bountifully 
with water and provisions as well as getting her in 
good sailing trim. When I had removed some of the 
offending grime from my hands I hastened up the bank 
to the shore. 

It was the first time that I had seen Velma Brandon 
in months. The blue-gray eyes, rosy cheeks and hearty 
smile drove the thought of flat paint brushes, four 
inches wide, quite out of my mind. One can see flat 
paint brushes even at sea but not eyes like Velma’s. 
She was on the steps of Hinds’ store, where she was 
employed during the summer as bookkeeper and clerk. 

“Hello, Velma,” I called out as I was passing on- 
201 


SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


ward to the other store, “ are you still speaking pieces 
on Friday afternoons, as you used to? ” 

She answered with a toss of her head indicating 
that if pieces were to be spoken she could do the job 
as well as the next one. Then she inquired with no 
little interest, “ Where are you bound, David? ” 

“ Oh, just up to the other store to get something, 
I have forgot just what,” I answered, pushing up my 
cap in a way that showed my indefiniteness of purpose. 

“ Why don’t you come in a minute while you are 
thinking of your errand? There’s something I want 
to talk with you about.” 

I did want to go in, all right, but was uncertain what 
kind of a reception I should encounter if either Seth 
Hinds or Captain Beers was in the store. So I in- 
quired guardedly, “ Who’s in there? ” 

The girl laughed merrily. From what she had heard 
of my exploits during the past few years she thought 
that I was rather late in taking precautions against 
being discomfited by my enemies. 

“ You needn’t have any fears so long as I’m around, 
David. I’ll keep off all highwaymen and robbers. Be- 
sides there’s nobody in the store now, anyway.” 

I followed her into the big store where, according to 
the boast of the proprietor, one could secure anything 
from a cambric needle to a goose-yoke. The front part 
of the store was given over to groceries and dry goods 
of varying sorts and uncertain ages. The back store, 
separated from the front by slide-doors, was packed 
with grain, farming implements and fishing tackle 
enough to supply the grand-bankers of Comberton. 
Between the front and back parts of the store was an 
office, partitioned off from the rest of the store, with 
one door and several windows. The bookkeeper worked 
here when she was not waiting upon customers. Not 
all of the little room was given over to the books, for 


A FAIR EXCHANGE 


203 


kegs and barrels were ranged about the wall and an as- 
sortment of oil clothes filled the corner farthest from 
the entrance. 

“ Come in here where we can talk without being over- 
heard,” the girl said as she led the way to the inner 
room. I felt a bit uneasy being taken right into the 
sanctum sanctorum of Seth Hinds, for he might appear 
at any moment. Although I had little concern for my- 
self, I wondered all the while what he might think of 
his clerk inviting one who was persona non grata into 
the very throne-room itself. 

You ought not to do this,” I remonstrated. 
‘‘What will old Hinds say if he catches me in here.^ ” 

“ Don’t worry about me, David. I’ll take care of 
you, and I’ve been doing the same for myself for a 
couple of years back. I know more about Mr. Hinds 
than is good for him, and he knows it. That’s why I 
wanted to talk with you. Now listen, and listen quick, 
for he is likely to be back any time.” 

We leaned against the tall shelf that served for a 
bookkeeper’s stand and while she talked she kept look- 
ing at the entrance to the store to anticipate any trou- 
ble from that direction. 

“ Seth Hinds, as you probably know, has little use for 
you or Captain Deane. He has done more than you 
think to try to break up Mr. Deane’s fishing this year 
and he will continue until he succeeds. That is why 
Captain Beers has followed you for the last six weeks. 
They intend to drive the Nimbus from the New Eng- 
land fishing grounds to the Bay. They have little 
chance while the schooner is in American waters to get 
her in the clutches of the Canadian cutters ; but if they 
can once get the schooner into North Bay they intend 
to do all in their power to have her captured and taken 
to Halifax. They have planned to seize the schooner 
while she is going through the Gut of Canso, if Captain 


204 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


Deane attempts that route. So be on your guard. 
Don’t go into any harbors, especially Port Hawkes- 
bury and Souris, in Prince Edward Island. Beers will 
watch you all the time. Those are the orders he got 
last night from Hinds. I ought not to tell you this 
but Mr. Deane must know the danger.” 

Here I interrupted her to inquire, “ Whom do you 
mean by Mister Deane Do you mean John.^” I 
knew well enough that she did, only I wanted to see 
what effect the question would have. Velma Brandon 
had known John Deane as long and as intimately as 
she had known me; so far as I could see she had no 
need to mister him. She blushed at my question as 
prettily and completely as I could desire and somewhat 
more than she wished. 

“We haven’t any time for your foolish questions, 
David. As I was saying — ” She looked up startled, 
then exclaimed as we saw both Hinds and Beers mount- 
ing the steps of the store, “ Quick, David, get behind 
those oil clothes in the corner. Don’t move till I can 
get you out of here. Mercy, what if they find you ! ” 

I hustled into the far corner where I took shelter by 
concealing myself behind the oil clothes. There was a 
barrel in the corner which furnished me with a com- 
fortable seat. Lucky for me, because I had a long 
wait ahead. Velma was busying herself with her books 
even before I got into concealment. The two were en- 
gaged in conversation as they entered. For a time 
they were in the back store and the sound of their voices 
came indistinctly into the office. No word came from 
Velma except as she once left the office to wait upon a 
customer. Presently Beers and Hinds came into the 
office. One subject only was on their minds — that 
of putting John Deane out of the running for the season 
and getting his schooner into the clutches of Canadian 
authorities. 


A FAIR EXCHANGE 


W5 


“ Dammit, Beers,” exclaimed Hinds, bringing his fist 
down on the day-book with a crash, “ you’ve got to get 
him. You are running well with him now so far’s stock 
is concerned. If he leads you by a few thousand at the 
end I can fix my accounts so’t you’ll lead him. There’s 
a cool thousand for you there, just as I have planned 
all along, for you to get. Then you’ve got the ship’s 
papers. Corner his schooner somewhere and it’s ten 
thousand for us. Remember, the one that’s got the 
papers gets the ten thousand. That was what I writ 
the Halifax folks and they agreed to it, five from them, 
five from me, provided you keep hold of the papers. 
You done a good day’s work when you euchered old 
Quigley out of the papers. He’ll never examine the 
envelope till the schooner is captured; then you’ll have 
the papers and he’ll have the envelope. But you and 
me split even, you know, at the end. Six thousand net 
for your summer’s work besides a mighty good fishin’ 
stock. You’ll own your own craft another year, old 
man.” 

Beers entered into the plans of his chief with all 
eagerness. Hinds owned him, more as a result of cir- 
cumstances than of any lack of positive qualities, for 
Beers was every whit as capable as Hinds but less for- 
tunate in worldly goods. While Hinds could plot and 
plan there was nobody along the seaboard who could 
carry out the plans better than Beers. 

He was a different type from his master, — bold and 
fearless when at sea, a tremendous worker, capable as 
a seaman and enthusiastic in all that he undertook, 
whether for himself or for the man who owned him. He 
would accomplish by a bold stroke what Hinds might 
attempt to do through chicanery. When he was ashore 
Hinds owned him body and soul. In his youth he had 
learned to carry out the orders of his chief without 
question ; for many years Hinds had manipulated the 


206 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


accounts of the firm in a way that invariably showed his 
favorite skipper to be high-liner of the firm’s fleet but 
never in a way that allowed Beers to gain a controlling 
part of the schooner which he commanded. Now that 
there was a personal reward ahead of him greater than 
any he had ever hoped for, Beers let scruples go to the 
winds. He reconciled himself, if he felt the need for it, 
by his practice of doing whatever his master expected 
him to do. 

“ I felt like the papers belonged to our concern,” 
Beers said in reply to Hinds and in justification of his 
trick upon the Canadian officers. 

“ It was me that told the cutter folks about the 
Nimbus off Liverpool harbor and again at Aspey Bay ; 
besides we left filling up the schooner with mackerel 
that day to take Quigley to his own cutter and fooled 
around two more days trying to p’int the blasted 
schooner out to him. But for that darn’d Graham 
youngster I’m not so certain we would, too.” 

This was news, indeed. The papers of the Nimbus 
were in the possession of Beers; he had filched them 
from Quigley, and the reward of ten thousand dollars 
for the capture of the Nimbus was conditioned upon the 
holding of her papers. No wonder that Beers had 
hounded John Deane day and night while we were cruis- 
ing in American waters. We were even now preparing 
to sail to the very regions where Beers could betray the 
schooner into Canadian hands and stand by to catch a 
pot of gold worth ten thousand dollars. 

As I listened to Beers, an idea came into my head, 
one of those rare moments in my life ; it was followed 
almost immediately by a second idea. All this time 
John Deane was wondering what had become of me and 
the flat paint brushes, four inches wide. I was doing 
something better for him than getting paint brushes, it 
is true, although all thought of brushes had vanished 


A FAIR EXCHANGE 


207 


from my head after the first words with Vehna Bran- 
don. 

“ Now,” continued Beers in an undertone, for other 
customers had entered the store, “ my plan is to stick 
close to him until he rounds Cape Sable ; then we’ll scoot 
on ahead and take the officer aboard at Halifax in time 
to join the Nimbus when she comes up. If he attempts 
to go through the Gut we’ve got him dead sure, for 
he’ll be within a mile of Canada on either side. No 
excuse for him at all, for he will be sailing without ship’s 
papers. The cutter’ll be on the watch for us at Hawkes- 
bury and if I don’t mistake my fish John Deane’ll be 
out a nice schooner within five days after he leaves 
this little port. Them papers’ll do the job slick 
enough,” and to emphasize his prediction he took an 
envelope out of his pocket and displayed the contents 
to Hinds. The two pored over them a minute. 

“ Better leave them with me till you get ready to 
sail,” Hinds said. “ I’ll put them in the safe for you. 
Now don’t be a bit anxious what cargo of fish you bring 
back from the bay. They’s jest one thing we want 
and you are to get that.” 

After a few minutes the two men stepped out of the 
office. I was watching both men furtively but found 
no opportunity to make my escape; as a matter of fact 
I was no longer anxious to get away. My mind was 
bent on something more alluring. On the ledger-book 
lay an envelope that I wanted. If Beers could filch from 
Quigley why couldn’t I do the same from him? Be- 
sides, the papers belonged to the Nimbus and her com- 
mander. Hinds came in from the back store but did 
not enter the office. Presently Beers left the store. I 
waited, not daring to stir from my position. If I was 
discovered I had made up my mind to grab the papers 
and make a fight for it to get them to John Deane. 
But it would be better to secure them by diplomacy, if 


208 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE ^NIMBUS 


possible. So I waited. Once Velma slipped into the 
office. I remained quiet, so much so that she felt in 
the corner to make sure I had not slipped out. Then 
Hinds came in. Velma busied herself with her books 
and Hinds took up the envelope that contained the 
papers of the Nimbus, It was getting near six o’clock. 

“ If you’ll go to supper now I will tend store until 
you get back,” his pretty clerk told Hinds, without 
looking up from her books. “ I have got some work 
on my daybook I’d like to do before I go home for the 
night.” 

Very true and also very artful. Hinds would be 
ready in a minute. He opened the envelope, it was a 
big one tied about with attached strings. He slipped 
the ship’s papers from the envelope, carefully folded a 
sheet of paper that was on the desk and placed it in 
the envelope. The ship’s papers he placed in a large 
yellow envelope and shoved them in a pigonhole above 
the writing desk. Before he left the office he opened 
the safe and carefully put the envelope inside that he 
wished Beers to have in safe keeping. Then he left 
the store. 

‘‘ Now get out of here just as quick as you can, Da- 
vid,” said Velma Brandon, nervous and fidgeting that 
I had been so long in concealment with the two men so 
close to me. 

“ All right,” I said, “ just as soon as you put up a 
pound of your best candy for me. What system of 
bookkeeping do you use, Velma? ” I inquired, stepping 
to the desk and pretending to look over the ledger. 
She went to the candy counter to fill my order. I fol- 
lowed the example of my worthy elder, Mr. Hinds, by 
slipping the papers of the Nimbus from the yellow 
envelope into my pocket ; then I folded a bill-head and 
inserted it in his envelope, carefully sealing the same 
before I put it back in the pigeon-hole. 


A FAIR EXCHANGE 


^09 


The candy is worthy a queen,” I exclaimed, tasting 
some and returning the bag to her after making pay- 
ment. “ This with my compliments,” I insisted, “ if 
not for yourself alone, to divide with your pretty sister. 
What shall I say to Mister Deane ? ” 

“ The same that I do to my pretty sister,” she re- 
plied with a toss of her head as she dismissed me. 

Instead of returning to the schooner I went home 
where I knew supper would be waiting for me. There 
I found John Deane. 

“ You’re a pretty sort of a messenger boy, aren’t 
you.'^” he exclaimed half in jest, half in earnest as I 
slipped into my chair at the table. “ Where have you 
been playing hookey all the afternoon? ” 

I made no bones of telling him nearly all that had 
taken place. I did not mention that the ship’s papers 
were in my possession simply because I thought I fore- 
saw where it might be to his advantage some day if the 
papers were in the possession of one of his friends in- 
stead of in his own hands. Of course I acquainted him 
with the conditions relating to the ten thousand dollars’ 
reward and that the main object of Hinds and Beers was 
to make sure of securing it. There would be a right 
moment to tell him about my seizing the papers. That 
would come as a welcome surprise to him. Besides, the 
best way to keep a secret is not to let others know you 
have one ; if I made no mention of having the papers in 
my possession nobody in Comberton, not even Velma 
Brandon, would know where they were. When I had 
concluded my story the skipper agreed that I had ac- 
quitted myself properly and forgave me for not getting 
the brushes. 

“ I got blushes for you instead of brushes,” I an- 
swered. 

“ How was that? ” he inquired, off his guard, As I 
repeated the incident of the afternoon he kept his eyes 


210 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


upon his plate very attentively while a deep red color 
stole over his features. He turned the matter aside by 
commenting out loud, “ So they think they are driving 
me into Canadian waters, do they? ” 


CHAPTER XXIII 


THROUGH NARROW STRAITS 

T he day we left the little port on the last voy- 
age of the season was one long to be remembered 
by the people of Comberton. There was some- 
thing uncanny in the thought of the Harvest Home 
forever dogging the trail of the Nimbus. Comberton 
could not reconcile itself to the thought of constant 
strife and enmity existing between two schooners from 
the same port. For the most part, their sympathies 
were with the young commander of the Nimbus^ even 
though there were many who had relatives and friends 
aboard the other vessel. The people stood by John 
Deane as a matter of principle. He had made his way 
in Comberton against tremendous odds and without a 
fair start. No veteran of the Comberton deep-sea fleet 
had ever come so near being a hero with his neighbors 
as this young man who, in a single' season, had won for 
himself a place in the front ranks. They set their 
hopes high on John Deane, too, because he was being 
opposed at home by the most influential, if not the most 
unscrupulous, citizen of the town and dogged on the 
high seas by as able a seaman as the wharves of Com- 
berton had furnished in a decade, a man whose mind 
was obsessed with the desire to carry out the mandates 
of his chief. It was not strange, then, that all Comber- 
ton should be at the wharves to see us off. 

It made a striking picture to the onlookers as the 
two §pbooners, built ^lud owned and for the most part 
211 


212 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


manned at the port, disappeared together under full 
sail beyond the bend of the Latona river. Far more 
striking was the home coming of the crews after that 
memorable cruise to the North Bay! There were men 
on the schooners’ decks whose bodies would be broken 
before they should see the wharves of Comberton again. 
Others of them, strong men, were embarking on their 
last voyage to the ports of men. Nobody knew it at 
the time, but that was a memorable day in the annals 
of the fishing village. 

Captain Decatur Beers, instructed in all points of 
his campaign by the master mind at Comberton, kept 
within respectable distance of our schooner until we 
turned the bows of the Nimbus to the eastward after 
passing Cape Sable. At this place we came up with 
two schooners from Gloucester, also bound for the North 
Bay. We kept along with the others until the fog shut 
them from our view a few miles to the west of Cape 
Canso. The Harvest Home, on the other hand, after 
making sure that the Nimbus was bound eastward along 
the Nova Scotia coast, set all her lighter sails and soon 
left us far astern. Late the following day when we 
had passed Halifax a schooner put out from the har- 
bor and followed us eastward. We had no reason to 
dispute Clint’s assertion that she was the Harvest 
Home. 

It mattered little to us, we thought, when we awoke 
the next day to find the wind from the south and a light 
fog shutting in around us. Hinds and Beers had con- 
cluded that John Deane would, if half a chance were 
given him, attempt to reach North Bay through the 
narrow Gut of Canso. We, too, aboard the Nimbus 
had been discussing the question ever since we left the 
wharves of the Latona behind and the consensus of 
opinion was that our skipper would take a chance any- 
way, unless it became evident when we reached the 


THROUGH NARROW STRAITS 


213 


vicinity of the straits that such a course would be fool- 
hardy. When the kindly fog settled about us with its 
protecting neutrality all uncertainty of our course dis- 
appeared. 

The Gut of Canso is a narrow strait of water between 
Nova Scotia and Cape Breton Island, connecting the 
Gulf of St. Lawrence with the Atlantic. Its channel is 
deep and narrow, so that vessels find a navigable course 
through the strait at all times. The adjacent shores 
are scarce a mile apart and rise from the water’s edge 
in bold banks on either side. The passage through the 
Gut of Canso saves vessels bound for the Gulf of St. 
Lawrence several hundred miles that would be neces- 
sary in sailing around Cape Breton Island. In this 
narrow passage where the schooner would be within less 
than a mile of either shore those who conspired against 
John Deane had carefully laid their plans to seize the 
Nimbus and take her to Port Hawkesbury, the nearest 
harbor available. We welcomed the fog that would 
conceal our schooner from her pursuers while making 
the passage through the Gut of Canso, and Captain 
Beers welcomed it because he knew John Deane well 
enough to be sure that the young skipper would take 
advantage of the good fortune, in the shape of the fog, 
that had come to him. We were sure of eluding our 
pursuers, they felt certain of making a capture. As 
the events proved neither was right. 

When the schooner reached the vicinity of Cape 
Canso it was not difficult in the light breeze to pick up 
the doleful warnings of the fog diaphone off Cranberry 
Island. After the foghorn had been located and the 
schooner had run close up to it Skipper John turned 
to Bill Spurling, his trusted navigator, and inquired, 
‘‘ Can you take her through the Gut, Bill ? ” 

Take her through or dump her on old Ceberus,” 
was the noncommittal answer that Bill gave. 


214 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


“ Well, we don’t want to wade ashore to-night, so 
you had better take her through instead of bumping 
Ceberus,” retorted the skipper. “ It looks like the 
Harvest Home and the Canadian cutters would have 
some fine pickings to locate us in this fog. But we’ve 
got to go mighty careful not to pile her up on the 
shore.” 

“ I can’t see, skipper, why you are so anxious to go 
through the Gut ; you know well enough that the Cana- 
dian officials have no more right to take the Nimbus 
in here, though we are within half a mile of the shore, 
than they have out in the open seas,” this from George 
Keene, the sea-lawyer. 

“ Because ” — the skipper started to make reply to 
Keene but hesitated before others of the crew. After 
we had gone half a mile further he got a chance to ex- 
plain quietly to Keene, as I learned afterwards, that he 
no longer claimed the right to sail the seas without lia- 
bility of capture from any source. He had learned 
that sailing a vessel without papers made her liable to 
seizure by any nation whatever, although in the scene 
at Aspey Bay he assumed, and the commander of the 
Beetle did not doubt the assumption, that he was ac- 
countable in this particular to his own government only. 
So this was the risk that he was taking, not only through 
the Gut of Canso but also in all waters. Day and 
night there hung over him a cloud of uncertainty; he 
never felt sure that an approaching vessel might not be 
one with a warrant to seize his schooner. He feared 
to have strangers come aboard the schooner lest they 
might be the bearer of a warrant for his own arrest as 
well as the seizure of the schooner. It was a big bur- 
den resting upon him ; yet he assumed the risk rather 
than turn the schooner over to her owner. Captain Ober. 

“ I have taken the schooner for the season,” he said 
in explanation of his conduct. “ Her papers have been 


THROUGH NARROW STRAITS 


215 


lost while under my command. Eventually she will be 
seized and condemned for sailing the seas without li- 
cense, I feel sure. To safeguard Captain Ober’s rights 
I have already made terms with him for the sale and 
transference of the schooner to myself. I have bonded 
my labor and my time virtually to the payment of the 
price of the schooner. I must get her worth out of 
her before she is seized and taken from me. That is 
why I am taking risks. It is only a matter of time, 
probably, before she is condemned; but she will pass 
from my control not by rotting at a wharf but with all 
sails spread.” 

Bill was handling the wheel with Ranny MacDonald 
at his elbow. Ranny was a native of Cape Breton, his 
home being a few miles north of Ship Harbor; so he 
was familiar with the narrow channel through which we 
were endeavoring to sail. MacEachern, another of the 
crew hailing from the same town, was sent up forward 
to watch with Clint. The crew were to remain on deck 
to be ready for action at all times, and word was passed 
forward not to have the foghorn blown except when the 
watch made out approaching vessels, that our pursuers 
might have the less to warn them of our whereabouts. 

“ How are you heading her. Bill.? ” inquired the 
skipper. 

“ Straight for Peninsular Point from the buoy. 
We’ll run half a mile or so to the eastward of Ceberus 
in this way. Keep a sharp lookout on the log; it’s 
thirteen and a half miles to Ceberus. We’re running 
six knot in this breeze and the tide sets in about another 
knot in that part of Chedabucto Bay. So I reckon we 
ought to be past the rock or on it in a couple of hours, 
easy.” 

The veteran of a hundred gales spoke as if there was 
doubt about his ability to get the schooner safely past 
the Ceberus, a dangerous rock which is awash and lies 


216 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


directly in the approach to the Gut from Cape Canso. 
We felt little concern for our safety with the schooner 
in Bill Spurling’s hands. 

In a couple of hours the log registered fourteen miles 
strong from the whistling buoy. Our helmsman then 
turned the wheel and changed the course of the schooner 
a couple of points to the westward. 

“ I calculate we’re just about six and a half miles 
from Eddy Point light now. We’ll clear Peninsular 
Point on this course all right and be picking up sound- 
ings off Red Head in another hour.” 

True to his prediction we came across to the Nova 
Scotia side in safety. The lead showed fifteen fathoms 
for four miles, then twelve and ten. The schooner was 
nearing the shore; but neither light nor sound gave us 
assistance from the landward side. 

“ How’s the log showing now, skipper ? ” Bill in- 
quired when the hour was up. 

‘‘ Six knot from where you changed the course last,” 
answered Skipper John, after pulling in the log line 
at the taffrail and examining the log. 

“ Heave the lead again,” commanded Bill. 

“ Seven fathoms ! ” came the answer from the for- 
ward watch after he had flung the lead far ahead of 
the fore-rigging and measured the amount of line with 
long sweeps of his arms. 

“ Time to head her up to the nor’ard,” said the 
helmsman as if giving himself orders. In another quar- 
ter hour the lead showed eighteen fathoms. The 
schooner’s bows were turned sharply to the westward 
for according to Bill the entrance to the Gut was only 
two miles away. So far everything was going finely. 
We had encountered no craft of any sort and our navi- 
gator was taking the schooner along her course with 
the certainty that comes from experience assisted by 
the log, the lead and the chart. 


THROUGH NARROW STRAITS 217 


As we neared the narrow entrance to the strait fre- 
quent blasts from foghorns were heard. Some boats 
were in the Gut, probably fishermen from Hawkesbury 
or Port Mulgrave, returning to port after a fishing 
trip in the outer part of Chedabucto Bay. Once we 
ran close to one of the boats in the fog. It proved to 
be a dory with three men aboard, two at the oars and 
the third using the foghorn. We hallooed to them 
through the haze to inquire where the channel was. 
All the men were in oil clothes and sou’westcrs. One 
of them answered, “ You’re in the channel now. Head 
her nor’nor’west and you’ll go right into the Gut.” 

After we had passed them their foghorn sent forth 
its warnings through the thick mist about us. We 
wondered why they should blow so many blasts, for 
they did not appear to be in danger either of running 
into other craft or of themselves being run down. 
When another horn was heard a few minutes later on 
our starboard bow we concluded that the two dories 
were keeping track of one another in the fog. So they 
were but they were also keeping track of the Nimbus 
and signaling to one another, and to a third boat far- 
ther within the Gut, of the coming of our schooner. 

Suddenly out of the fog almost ahead of the Nimbus 
came a strong call, “ Hello, there ! Is that a 
schooner.^ ” 

“ Sure it’s a schooner,” answered the son of Cape 
Negro, who was leaning over the knighthead. “ What 
did you think it was, the Great Eastern? ” 

What schooner is that.^^ ” was the inquiry that came 
again from out the fog. The boat could be made out 
more plainly now with two men at the oars, one in the 
bow and another seated astern. 

“ This is the Dolly Varden, of Souris,” our watchman 
called back. 

“ Give us a lift, will you.? ” said the man in the stern, 


218 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


of the boat. “ We’re bound for Hawkesbury. Tow 
us astern if you will, mate, and you’ll help us a heap.” 

The man in the bow of the dory stood up as the two 
craft approached and threw the painter across the ship’s 
rail. The men at the oars kept their eyes sharply on 
their work to bring the dory alongside without upsetting 
her as the schooner slowly forged ahead. The man in 
the stern of the boat did not look up; he watched the 
men at the oars and with a gesture, first with one hand, 
then with the other, directed their rowing. As the boat 
swung alongside one of our crew seized the painter and 
passed the end under a cleat. The man in the bow was 
the first to board the schooner, followed by the men at 
the oars. All wore sou’westers pulled down over their 
faces. 

John Deane was standing near the wheel. When the 
men climbed aboard he moved forward near the main- 
rigging. He had no thought in his mind except to give 
a fellow fisherman a lift and had started to make sure 
that the men got aboard all right. It occurred to him 
also that the fishermen might prove helpful in navigat- 
ing the schooner through the strait. The last man 
aboard the dory seized the schooner’s rail and scrambled 
nimbly to the deck. He turned toward the quarter and 
tipped the brim of his sou’wester up. 

The man was our neighbor, Decatur Beers. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


MISTS AND MYSTERIES 



T last Decatur Beers was master of the situation. 


The day toward which he had been working for 


^ months was at hand. His bold plan to get pos- 
session of the Nimbus while she was passing through the 
narrow Gut of Canso had been well managed. In spite 
of the thick fog, or rather because of it, he had managed 
to board the schooner and bring an official with him. 
He tipped back the front of his sou’wester, bowed in 
mock-heroic manner to our skipper, swinging his arms 
wide to his side as he made his obeisance. 

“ Good afternoon. Mister Deane. Let me introduce 
my friend. Lieutenant Walden, of Halifax.” 

In the exciting moments that followed the boarding of 
the schooner by the four men John Deane had remained 
the coolest man on the ship. The dreaded hour when 
the schooner must be surrendered had come. Possibly 
he had anticipated the unhappy event too many times 
to be disturbed by its actual consummation ; at least, he 
gave no sign of embarrassment. It would be a rash act 
to resist the officer by force. So he remained silent, 
looking from one to the other of the men. 

I knew that the key to the situation was in my hands. 
My thoughts flashed to my berth in the cabin where the 
papers of the Nimbus rested secure in my ditty-box, un- 
known by any other person in the world. My first im- 
pulse was to rush down the companionway and return 
triumphantly with the missing papers in my hands. 


219 


^^0 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


Second thought told me that it would be better to watch 
the invaders play their own game up to the point where 
their exultation would be turned into swift ridicule. I 
felt a bit nervous, not for John Deane’s welfare, which I 
knew was properly safeguarded ; but from anticipation 
of the oncoming scene. 

It was the lieutenant’s turn to act. After Beers’ 
showy introduction, to which John Deane made no ac- 
knowledgment, the officer felt no little discomfiture under 
the steady blue-gray eyes of the young man before him. 
It was a new experience for him to serve a warrant by 
the undignified method of treacherously boarding a 
schooner which had offered assistance. So it was in 
half-apologetic manner and tone that he announced his 
business. 

“ My commission requires me to seize your schooner 
and her cargo,” he began, fumbling in his pocket for the 
warrant. “ We understand that you are sailing the 
high seas without the license that ships of all nations are 
required to have. You should be informed of the pur- 
pose of the writ as issued.” 

Whereupon he began to read the document, which set 
forth at length the seizure and subsequent escape of the 
Nimbus, all of which was ancient history to his listeners. 
When he had concluded, he held the paper out for John 
Deane to examine, but the skipper made no move to take 
it. He glanced at Beers ; the shrewd skipper of the 
Harvest Home was playing his own game and gave the 
officer no encouragement. Finally the officer said, 
‘‘ Make ready to accompany me aboard the Harvest 
Homer 

He was startled by John Deane’s exclaiming, ‘‘ What 
if I refuse? ” 

“ Then I shall have to use force as my warrant in- 
structs me,” replied the other, who was beginning to 
recover his usual self-composure. He had no doubt of 


MISTS AND MYSTERIES 


221 


his legal right to seize the skipper and the schooner and 
already had thrust his hand into his hip pocket, as 
everybody supposed to draw forth a weapon, when 
Beers interrupted the proceedings. He had no inten- 
tion to let the officer make the seizure in his own name, 
at least without a display of the ship’s papers. 

“ It might be well, Lieutenant Walden,” he said with 
a deference that he was not accustomed to acknowledge 
to any man, “ it might be well to ask Mister Deane to 
show his ship’s papers.” 

“ Better,” I interrupted, “ for you to prove what the 
warrant states, that Captain Deane is sailing the Nim- 
bus without her papers.” 

“ Oh, just as you say, sonny,” Beers retorted spite- 
fully. “ Since you’re running this business we’ll do as 
you want.” 

The officer, glad of an opportunity to make a change 
of front in what was developing into an uncomfortable 
situation, quickly assented to the suggestion. His hand 
went to his coat pocket, from which he produced a long 
envelope. 

“ It will take but a moment to satisfy him on that 
point,” he said. “ You should be able to recognize your 
own ship’s papers which were given me by Captain 
Quigley as I was leaving Halifax.” 

With that he opened the envelope and took out the 
folded paper within, which he held out to John Deane. 
Skipper John was about to refuse it when his eye no- 
ticed the freshness of the papers before him. Taking 
them from the officer’s hands he unfolded the paper, 
holding it at arm’s length before the view of all. To 
his own surprise and the utter confusion of the lieuten- 
ant, he unfolded, not the papers of the Nimbus, but a 
blank sheet of paper. He looked at it spellbound, great 
hope and joy coming into his heart at the revelation 
before him. 


222 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


“ There must be trouble with my eyesight, sir,” he 
exclaimed, “ but these are not my ship’s papers.” 

With a look of relief and disgust he thrust the worth- 
less paper back into the hands of the astonished Walden. 
Words cannot describe the chagrin of the officer at the 
startling announcement of the man before him. He, 
too, stared wide-eyed at the sheet of paper. He turned 
it over, scrutinized it carefully and at last convinced 
that some mistake had been made he folded it back into 
the envelope. It was a moment of greatest humiliation 
for him. Nobody had sympathy for him. The crew 
were dumbfounded like the rest at the disclosure. Mur- 
murs came from the crowd at his back, but a single ges- 
ture from John Deane quieted his crew. 

“ I owe you . an apology, sir,” the officer began. 
‘‘ There has been a mistake. I have no evidence that 
you are sailing without your papers.” He turned de- 
jectedly toward the schooner’s rail to take his departure 
in the dory. 

The crew, seeing the sudden turn of events in favor 
of Skipper John, began to wink knowingly to one an- 
other and make unkind gestures toward the officer and 
men. Bill Spurling had been taking in the situation 
even though his business at the wheel had not suffered. 
He bawled out from his place on the wheel-box, “ You 
needn’t worry long what has become of them papers, 
mister, if you have been bedmating with ’Cate Beers 
over night. A man that bunks with ’Cate is likely to 
wake up with his whiskers trimmed, like Samson did of 
old.” 

The poor officer was badly discomfited by Bill’s rude 
jest and the loud guffaws from the crew that followed. 
But the helmsman’s dart had struck under the tough 
hide of Decatur Beers. On the instant he resented the 
imputation. He stepped forward and assumed an ag- 
gressive attitude, 


MISTS AND MYSTERIES 


22S 


‘‘ Perhaps I may be thick and perhaps not ; but I can 
deliver the goods,” he cried out sharply. “ Lieutenant, 
seize Captain Deane and his ship. He is sailing without 
papers. Whoever does that is a pirate. Better run up 
the sign of the skull and crossbones, skipper.” 

Then before the astonished officer and the puzzled 
crew of the Nimbus he drew a paper from his pocket and 
waved it dramatically in the air. 

“ Here are the ship’s papers,” he declared triumph- 
antly to the officer. ‘‘ You want the ship and I want the 
reward that goes to the one who holds the papers, ten 
thousand dollars.” 

He waved the paper aloft and jeered at John Deane 
as he did so. The skipper was overcome with the sud- 
den change of the situation. A heavy weight settled on 
his heart that one of his own townsmen should prove 
himself the Judas among Comberton fisherfolk. The 
crew were indignant at Beers and not unwilling to seize 
him bodily and cast him overboard. Upon seeing signs 
of revolt among the crew the lieutenant called out to 
Beers and his husky Newfoundlanders: “Seize him, 
then, if you hold the papers. Put him in irons ! ” 

At the word from the lieutenant the husky seamen 
sprang past Beers to seize John Deane. How foolish 
of them ! A dozen men could not have held him at that 
hour. He met the men halfway as they leaped forward, 
reaching for each with outstretched arms and hands of 
steel ; grasping one by the neck, the other by the shoul- 
der, he whirled them together with a crash. They 
struck each other full in the face. One fell to the deck, 
where he nursed his bruised features from which the 
blood was spurting. John Deane held the other in the 
grip of his right hand. He whirled him about and 
swung him with all the power he could command full into 
the face of Decatur Beers. The two men, crushed and 
bleeding, fell backward off the brake into the run of the 


224i SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


schooner. With three men down in as many seconds the 
skipper turned upon the affrighted officer, who had 
backed against the main-shrouds for protection. 

“ Now tell me,” he cried in anger at the officer, “ who 
is making this seizure and arrest, you or Beers You 
have one document, he had another. Are you going to 
do the job or will you give it over to that thing there ” 
He pointed to Beers as he spoke, who was regaining his 
feet and wiping the gore from his face. 

For answer the raging skipper of the Harvest Home 
yelled to the officer as he stepped forward toward him, 
“ Here, take the papers and arrest him. We’ve stood 
enough of his bulldozing.” 

The officer took the crumpled envelope from Beers. 
Before he had time to act I interposed a word. 

Imitating the example of Decatur Beers, I said, ‘‘ It 
might be well. Lieutenant Walden, to prove to Mr. 
Deane that he is sailing without his ship’s papers.” 

My words cut to the quick. The two men looked 
daggers at me. The officer glanced at Beers, who inter- 
preted the look by shouting out, “ Open it and read, if 
he thinks we are bluffing.” 

Assured that Captain Beers was rectifying the blun- 
der he had made, the lieutenant opened the envelope and 
took out the contents. He glanced at the paper and 
turned pale. Then he passed it back to Beers, who was 
staring bewildered at the officer. Beers took the sheet, 
a printed bill-head from Seth Hinds’ store, and gazed 
at it in blank astonishment. He thrust his hand fever- 
ishly into an inner pocket in search of other papers, but 
it returned empty. 

“ Maybe Uncle Seth Hinds has locked the papers up 
in his store for safe keeping, Mr. Beers,” I suggested 
quietly to the infuriated, speechless man before us. 
“ Perhaps he would like part of that ten thousand him- 
self,” 


MISTS AND MYSTERIES 


225 


John Deane turned to me as if seeking explanation of 
the happy turn of events, while Decatur Beers glowered 
hatred from his swarthy features. The only explana- 
tion that I gave was to remark, “ You see, skipper. Cap- 
tain Beers is a sneak, a sneak-thief and a liar, all three 
rolled in one, — a triple-plated skunk pretending to 
‘ call ’ you on a royal flush when all he has got is a pair 
of knaves on deck and two discards in the dory.” 

With a roar Beers dropped the worthless papers and 
rushed across the deck, raising his arm high in air as if 
to strike me down with a single blow. John Deane seized 
him as he went past and swung the man in a circle and 
dropped him at the feet of the bewildered lieutenant. 
In an instant Beers was on his feet again and with head 
lowered and arms outstretched rushed at our skipper. 
This time he was treated less kindly but not beyond the 
punishment he deserved. The skipper leaped backward 
to avoid his clutch, then stooping over he pushed the 
oncoming man’s head down to the deck and held him 
with his face pressed hard against unyielding planks. 

“You worse than skunk! You sneak and bully I 
You deserve to be towed astern by your worthless neck 
until the rope rots off! You ask for a ‘lift’ on my 
schooner, do you? You shall have it. Next time you 
board this schooner you’ll do it in a different style than 
you did this time.” 

While he was speaking the skipper kept Beers pinned 
to the deck, one hand holding his head firmly while he 
pressed a knee into the small of his opponent’s back. 
It was a gruelling punishment but a kind one from John 
Deane at such a time. As he finished speaking the skip- 
per lifted Beers from the deck and raised him above his 
head, the fellow struggling all the time to break the hold. 
He carried the hulk of humanity to the rail and hurled 
him with giant strength over the unfortunate man’s own 
dory into the waters beyond. Beers twisted in mid-air 


226 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


in vain attempts to fall face downward ; but since he had 
more of the skunk than the cat in his nature he fell with 
a great splash and sank from view. 

While the struggle between Deane and Beers was 
going on, the two Newfoundlanders from the Harvest 
Home prudently slipped off the schooner’s rail into their 
dory. There they stood holding to the rail, their faces 
only peering above board and they themselves petrified 
with fear, although inwardly rejoicing that they had 
not been long in the clutches of the terrible giant of the 
Nimbus, When they beheld their own terrifying com- 
mander lifted from the deck and hurled over their heads 
into the sea as if he were so much junk, they cast off 
the dory’s painter and pulled hastily away from the 
place where a single man could paralyze a crowd. The 
last we saw of the group was the reappearance of the 
captain of the Harvest Home in his own circle of foam, 
blowing water from his mouth and between gasps shout- 
ing for his men to rescue him from his predicament. 
The fog closed in like a slow curtain and shut the men 
from our view. 

The officer, terrified at the scene enacted before him, 
was speechless. As the fog shut us from the men on the 
water he turned with a horrified look on his face. 

“ Sir, you are not to leave that man in the water ! ” 
he exclaimed. “ What if he drowns.'^ ” 

With a look of disgust John Deane answered, I gave 
him only what he asked for, a ‘ lift.’ He is lucky to get 
away with a bruised head in place of broken bones. 
Now you shall have what you wanted. Men,” he ex- 
claimed, turning to us, ‘‘ put over the dory.” 

A dozen willing hands seized the gunwales of the boat 
and lifted it over the ship’s rail into the water. Turn- 
ing to the terrified officer. Captain Deane said, “ You 
wished to be towed astern as far as Port Hawkesbury. 


MISTS AND MYSTERIES 


m 

Your request shall be granted, for I don’t want the 
likes of you aboard the schooner with my men. You 
folks will learn before you get through dealing with 
Seth Hinds and that wharf rat there,” pointing back in 
the direction where Beers and his men had been lost to 
view, “ what a precious pair of villains they are and how 
much trouble they have made for your service in trying 
to put me out of business.” 

Seizing the officer he swung him clear of the rail to the 
dory’s thwart below. The dory was towed astern, 
where the officer of the cutter service could read “ Nim- 
bus — Comberton ” to his heart’s content. 

‘‘ How’s she heading, Bill.'^ ” inquired the skipper 
after quiet had been restored aboard the Nimbus. 

“ Nor’nor’west-half-west, sir,” replied the good man 
at the wheel. 

‘‘ Where do you reckon we are now ” 

Right off Ship Point but safe away from the Rock. 
We ought to be abreast Ship Harbor in half an hour 
easy the way the tide is setting us along. The wind is 
shifting to the west’ard and I calculate we’ll be running 
out of the Gut with fair weather on our port quarter.” 

The veteran’s predictions were accurate. Within 
half an hour the fog began to break above and around 
the schooner, indicating that an offshore breeze was set- 
ting in which would drive the fog back into the Atlantic. 
As we neared the locality where the skipper intended to 
put the officer ashore, I requested to be allowed to go in 
the dory with him. I called Bill from his faithful serv- 
ice at the wheel and we pulled the dory ashore in the fog 
while the schooner jogged back and forth off Stapleton 
Point. We landed him at a place where Bill said it 
would be a walk of three or four miles only around the 
shore to Port Hawkesbury. 

‘‘ Follow the shore line long enough,” said my com- 


^28 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


panion to the officer, ‘‘ and you can’t miss it. If you 
hurry you’ll be there before dark.” 

As the officer stepped ashore I held a paper before 
him and said, “ Glance at this before you leave us. It 
may convince you that the Nimbus is less of a pirate 
craft than you suppose.” 

He took the schooner’s papers in his hands, examin- 
ing them carefully. When he passed them back he said, 
half regretfully, “ Thank you, young man, for showing 
them to me. But I am more bewildered than ever. 
How does it happen that they are in your possession? ” 

I drew myself up to full Graham stature before reply- 

ing- 

“ Sir, with real men things don’t happen. Bill, here, 
doesn’t happen to take the Nimbus through the Gut in 
thick-o’-fog ; he knows she’s going through before we 
leave Canso. John Deane doesn’t happen to make big 
catches of fish and lead the American fleet, he plans with 
a big vision. And you’ll pardon me, I don’t happen to 
have these papers; it is part of my business that they 
are not in your hands, or in Seth Hinds’, who got them 
from Beers, or in Beers’, who stole them from Captain 
Quigley.” 

With that I left him, stranded and bewildered, in the 
fog of Tupper Point. 

On the way back to the schooner Bill stopped rowing 
and, resting on his oars, said, “ Pitch, you are the slick- 
est liar I ever saw. You out-annied Aninias when you 
were talking with the officer there. What did you show 
him to convince him that you wasn’t a liar? ” 

Without a word I took the papers from my pocket 
and passed them over to my companion. He had exam- 
ined them a few minutes before I said, “ Allow me to 
suggest that I may not be so great a liar as you think.” 
His well eye twinkled as he passed the papers back. 


MISTS AND MYSTERIES 


229 


“ Now, Bill,” said I, “ mum’s the word about the 
papers.” 

“ All right, my boy,” he replied, as he took up his 
oars again, “ but you do beat heU, Pitch, I’ll say that 
for you.” 


CHAPTER XXV 


THE LURE OF THE NORTH BAY 

T he spirit of Vikings fell upon us as the Nimbus, 
leaving behind the narrow straits of Canso, the 
baffling fogs and discomfited enemies, burst into 
the open waters of Saint George’s bay. A fresh breeze 
from the westward tightened ropes and stays. Before 
us spread the inviting waters of untried regions. The 
headland of Cape St. George reflected strength of forest 
and field and rock. Sparkling waters of the bay beck- 
oned us on farther and farther into the great maw of 
the Gulf and we sailed on confiding in their welcome. 
But how they deceived us ! How they lashed us in their 
fury when we sought to escape from the Gulf weeks 
later ! 

We crossed over to Judique and coasted along the 
Cape Breton shore to Port Hood, famous for strong fish- 
ermen. It was a short sail across to East Point, where 
we turned west and north to follow the luna-shaped 
coast of that garden of the Gulf, the beautiful Prince 
Edward Island whose level, fertile fields spread out for 
miles in a succession of illimitable lawns as we saw them 
from offshore. On we went to Tignish, where we fished 
for a week ; then back again with the fleet to East Point, 
all the time scouring the seas for the wily mackerel. 
Up the coast once more and over to Bradelle bank to 
have a look around there before we ventured across to 
the rocky Magdalenes. Always we were sailing or fish- 
ing. There was no respite from work even though the 
returns were meager. 


230 


THE LURE OF THE NORTH BAY 231 


How John Deane labored in those days! How he 
drove his schooner back and forth, how he clung to the 
cross-trees by day and by night in search of schooling 
mackerel, how he dragged the seas that were so reluc- 
tant to contribute from their treasured stores ! We 
toiled heartily with him, grinding bait at the mill and 
casting the mangled herring into the sea to lure the 
mackerel from off the bottom, robbing night at both 
ends in that high latitude in our zeal to secure a cargo 
of fish, rising before the sun and setting the seine times 
that we could not remember while daylight lasted, and 
seeking our berths long after sunset, tired fishermen to 
be sure but trained veterans now who recovered quickly 
from the fatigue of the day. 

The sun that was set to watch our labors by day 
never found us unprepared for the task before us, sweat- 
ing and pulling through the long day, seldom getting 
less than a barrel or two each day, rarely catching a 
dozen barrels at a setting of the great seine, yet satis- 
fied as time went on that every day’s toil brought its 
reward. Sunset came late in that high latitude but it 
always left our seine-boat on the waters with the men 
silently pulling in the wet twine and finishing the toil of 
the day long after the sun had sunk below the low-lying 
landscape of Prince Edward. In the long afterglow we 
worked until the starry septinels of the night peered 
forth to continue the watch which the great orb of the 
day had begun. There were dark shapes and forms 
moving about the schooner’s deck then, making every- 
thing snug for the night and hanging the red and the 
green eyes of the schooner in the shrouds to signal back 
to the greater lights above that all was well aboard the 
Nimbus. 

They were beautiful days that we cruised alongside 
Prince Edward, if filled to the brim with work at the 
oars and the seine. No day stands forth clearly above 


232 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


the rest, they were too much alike in the circle of toil 
that came with them for that. Yet the month made one 
fine impression — fair seas about us, kindly skies above, 
the joy of working and eating and sleeping, the com- 
pany of other schooners, and the low-lying island so near 
that we could almost lay our hands upon its green- 
sward and the sight of whose homesteads gave tonic to 
the memory of our own New England firesides. There 
was an undisturbed satisfaction in the life off these 
shores, for we were slowly and surely nearing the time 
of our return to Comberton after a season of hardship 
and success. We got our fare of fish, too, got them 
from days of toil that netted one day five barrels of 
mackerel, another eight. In a week we had half a hun- 
dred barrels in the hold, in a month we had two hundred 
that had been literally lured from the bottom of the 
Gulf by the persistence of our tireless leader. 

During all this time we were never free from the pur- 
suing Harvest Home. Captain Decatur Beers did not 
relax his pursuit of the Nimbus and her daring com- 
mander for a moment. No sooner was he free from 
his encounter with us in the Gut of Canso than he put 
into Port Hawkesbury, where he took aboard a person 
duly empowered to seize the Nimbus whenever she should 
venture into the treaty waters of the Gulf, for he still 
clung to the belief that we were sailing without the ship’s 
papers. However, it was a long chase that John Deane 
gave him. 

Once in the darkness of the night we slipped away 
from him and the rest of the fleet as we were seining off 
East Point. Before the Harvest Home again discov- 
ered our whereabouts we had sailed up the coast to Tig- 
nish and sent a seine-boat ashore filled with empty bar- 
rels ; they came back filled with a fresh supply of water 
except half a dozen of them that were filled with new 
potatoes to replenish our larder. It was only two 


THE LURE OF THE NORTH BAY 23S 


nights after we had rejoined the fleet at East Point 
that John Deane slipped away with his schooner a sec- 
ond time, on this occasion to undertake a more daring 
feat than running within the three-mile limit for water 
and potatoes. 

After darkness set in we sailed across the bay to Port 
Hood, leaving Decatur Beers to conjecture as best he 
could where the doughty son of Comberton had disap- 
peared with his prized schooner. When daylight came 
on the schooner was headed for the Gut of Canso. The ' 
skipper did not divulge his plans to any in the crew 
except to Cameron and MacEachern, the two men who 
lived in the vicinity of Judique. At the entrance to 
the Gut the schooner dropped the two men in a dory. 
They pulled away toward Port Hawkesbury, seven or 
eight miles away, and in another quarter-hour were lost 
to view. 

We cruised about St. George’s bay, making several 
sets of the seine and catching a few barrels of fish. We 
avoided getting near any of the boats that were fishing 
in the lower part of the bay. With the return of dark- 
ness the schooner boldly entered the Gut and slowly 
jogged back and forth from one shore to the other. 
Near ten o’clock some one hallooed to us. The schooner 
was turned in the direction of the shouting and presently 
we picked up the dory with the two fishermen. As they 
climbed over the rail the skipper greeted them warmly. 

“ How is it, men? Did you have any luck? ” he in- 
quired. 

“ Never better,” replied Cameron, as he leaped to 
the deck with the boat’s painter in hand. “We landed 
a couple miles above Hawkesbury, where we left our 
dory and walked to town. We met nobody who knew 
us except Lem Peters at his home. He has got one 
horse and will get another one for to-night. We are 
to land on the north side of the wharf, where he will 


2S4< SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


have a lantern to guide us. The Beetle is anchored 
about a quarter mile from there. Lem is going to 
grease all his blocks and running gear in good shape so 
there will be no noise. Look’s like everything will be all 
O. K.” 

“How about getting to the wharf.?” the skipper 
inquired. “ Can we get in easy and also get away 
quick.? ” 

“ All you will have to do,” responded the other, “ is 
to run the schooner into harbor without much sail on 
her, so we can haul the sails to leeward while the schooner 
is at the wharf, then we won’t make any noise lowering 
and hoisting them while in harbor. Have the oars muf- 
fled, get the seine-boat ready to tow the schooner to the 
wharf and we’ll slip into the wharf without anybody’s 
knowing it.” 

We all began to see what was under way. John 
Deane was attempting to land his cargo of two hundred 
barrels of mackerel during the darkness of the night at 
the wharf in Port Hawkesbury. From there they would 
be shipped by rail to Boston while the prices were high. 
He would run a big risk of detection and capture, espe- 
cially as he would be almost under the bows of the 
Beetle. The venture was worth the risk, however. He 
was dreading that day when, he feared, his schooner 
would be seized by Canadian officials, so he was unwilling 
to carry two hundred barrels of mackerel in her hold if 
he could ship them to market. During the early eve- 
ning we hoisted a hundred barrels of the fish to deck 
where they could be rolled easily on to the wharf ; the 
other hundred barrels were placed near the main-hatch 
where they could be hoisted out most readily. 

The schooner moved noiselessly toward the harbor of 
Hawkesbury. When Plaster Cove had been left on the 
port side and we were within four miles of the inner 


THE LURE OF THE NORTH BAY 235 


harbor the friendly light from Stapleton Point served 
for our guide. As we neared the harbor the lights from 
vessels riding at anchor and especially the night lights 
of the Beetle served both to guide and warn us. While 
we looked and listened a light showed on the shore, as if 
a lantern was being lifted up and down. The bows of 
the Nimbus were headed confidently toward the swaying 
light, the lower sails were gradually eased off before the 
wind, and the seine-boat was pulled quietly ahead to 
tow the schooner to the wharf. 

The men worked in silence on the deck and on the 
wharf. Lanterns were placed in boxes arranged to 
light up the men at their work but invisible from the 
harbor side. A horse was hitched to the hoisting-tackle 
and pulled a barrel of mackerel from the hold. While 
he was returning to the schooner’s rail for another load 
the second horse took his turn at pulling out a load. 
There was a lively scene on deck, as well — men rolling 
barrels of mackerel up long planks over the schooner’s 
side, others shoving them away and piling them in rows 
at the head of the wharf. The work went on swiftly 
and silently. There was no mishap and no miscalcula- 
tion. Barrels kept coming over the rail in a double, 
uninterrupted stream. The last barrel was rolled into 
its place on the wharf as quietly as the first had been. 
There was no delay when the work was completed. 
Moorings were cast off, the crew in the seine-boat towed 
the schooner back into the stream with muffled oars. 
The men on the wharf had been paid for their night 
work, the horses were already headed for their stables, 
and Lem Peters knew just what he was expected to do 
in the morning in getting the cargo aboard the steam- 
boat. It all seemed like a dream as it was passing, no 
voices, little noise, the quiet dip of the oars into the 
waters, the schooner slipping in to the wharf and out 


236 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


again as if impelled bj invisible hands and then gliding 
away in the darkness like a nocturnal spirit of the 
deep. 

Was the risk worth while? We thought so after we 
had got away from the harbor far enough so that we 
dared to speak above a whisper. We decided that it 
was worth while two days later when we rejoined the 
fishing fleet and it became noised abroad how John 
Deane had stolen a night march on the vigilant Beers 
and the sleepy sailors of the Beetle, We knew so a few 
weeks later when the Nimbus returned to Port Hawkes- 
bury and passed into the hands of Canadian officials. 
The one thought that came to cheer the crew then was 
that two hundred barrels of mackerel were in the Boston 
market, safe from hostile officials. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


WHAT DEADMAN’s ROCK SAW 

T he Magdalenes treated us badly. Ever since I 
first stubbed about the shipyards of Comberton 
in my copper-toed boots I had heard old sea-cap- 
tains tell marvelous tales of the far-away islands until 
Entry and Grindstone and awe-inspiring Coffin became 
magic isles of the northerly seas where only real Vikings 
of the day ventured with their ships and crews. There 
were stories of swarming schools of fish, of bloater her- 
ring, and record trips made from the Latona river. 
But the wildest stretch of my youthful imagination never 
put me in actual contact with the fortunate isles. 

Our passage from Tignish across to the Magdalenes 
was made in a northwest gale which roared past us as it 
rushed seaward through the Cabot strait. It left us 
on a Thursday morning under the forbidding rocks of 
Old Harry Head on Coffin island. Anchor was cast 
under the lee of the shore where we were safe, for a 
time at least, from the wrack of the gale and the danger- 
ous Columbine shoals to the southward. There we rode 
at anchor full twenty-four hours before the gale sub- 
sided enough to allow us to launch the extra seine-boat 
which had been carried on deck. 

We had reached the Magdalenes, those rugged rocks 
that, grouped in a desolate bunch in the center of the 
Gulf of Saint Lawrence, afford an alluring feeding- 
ground for herring and mackerel but meager and despe- 
rate habitation for the hardy fishermen whose living is 
made from these treasures of the sea. For three weeks 
237 


238 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


we pounded our way around the islands, like itinerant 
beggars driven from retreat to retreat as the storms 
shifted about, and only getting ashore when the weather 
was too inclement to allow fishing. Therefore we got 
the worst kind of an impression of the islands and the 
natives, of interesting natural bridges and ocean cav- 
erns that have been carved out of the rock by the might 
of the waves, and of the Magdalene pig, that omnipres- 
ent indicator of the homes of the island fishermen. 

When we had been at the islands about a fortnight, 
hunting everywhere about the rocky shores for the best 
fishing grounds and finding only tolerable success to 
reward our long days of toil, a Saturday overtook us 
off Headman’s Rock, a sharp needle of rock thrust up 
from the ocean bottom to give color to a lonesome sea- 
scape and trouble to innocent fishermen. Toward eve- 
ning, while we were about to make the last setting of the 
seine for the day, a schooner’s sail appeared on the 
southern horizon. There was nothing strange in this, 
since we had encountered a dozen Gloucester seiners dur- 
ing our period at the islands ; yet this sail attracted 
immediate attention because the course of the stranger 
was not changed an iota from the time she hove in sight 
until she reached us. While she was still a long way off 
the keenest sighted men of the crew announced that the 
Harvest Home was again on our trail. 

“ Don’t it beat a school of dogfish how that old sea- 
cow scents us out ! ” exclaimed George Keene after Clint 
had announced the name of the oncoming schooner. 

“ There’s no sea-cow to ’Cate Beers, let me tell you 
that, old boy,” retorted Bill Spurling. “ He’s a water- 
bull, if he’s got pedigree at all. When the mate of the 
sea-cow is romping at large about the seas it’s a good 
plan to keep your eye peeled in his direction.” 

Bill Spurling spoke words of wisdom, as he usually 
did. Yet we were not aware how closely Bill’s advice 


WHAT HEADMAN’S ROCK SAW 239 


should have been followed on that quiet Saturday eve- 
ning. When the Harvest Home came up to us we were 
in the seine-boat. Lew Mills, as usual, was aboard the 
schooner handling her with practiced art. Skipper 
John was in the dory, pulling at the seine opposite the 
boat to keep the twine clear while the pursing-up was 
going on, and only fifty feet from us. The Nimbus was 
three hundred yards or so from us when the Harvest 
Home circled in near our seine-boat, sailing between us 
and the schooner. 

In the twinkling of an eye Decatur Beers turned a 
bold trick. He swung his schooner about toward the 
Nimbus and called out in a stentorian voice, “ Get in the 
boat ! ” There was a scramble and rush as the yellow- 
jacketed crew sprang over the port rail into the seine- 
boat and dory, both of which were on that side. At the 
same time his schooner turned toward our seine-boat and 
bore down upon us while the two boats of the Harvest 
Home pulled away quickly in the opposite direction to- 
ward our schooner. The Nimbus was in stays, just 
making a tack to come back in our vicinity. 

Look at the hell-hounds, what they are doing 1 ” 
suddenly exclaimed Pevear, who was in the stern of our 
seine-boat. 

“ They are going to board the schooner ! ” yelled 
Clint, calling out to the skipper from the vantage point 
of the boat’s thwart. 

We had little chance to see what they were up to for 
the Harvest Home bore straight down upon us as we 
worked, concealing the movements of her own boats and 
threatening to sink the whole lot of us. Skipper John 
sprang to the stern of his dory to cast off the rope that 
held the boat to the seine. Then he leaped to the thwart 
and seized the oars to bring the boat to the seine-boat. 

“ Pull that seine in quick, men ! ” he shouted out 
to us. 


S40 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


We had been caught in a bad way. The seine was 
only partly “ dried in ” — it would be as quick work to 
finish pulling it inboard as to dump the whole seine into 
the water. In either case we were prevented from get- 
ting away to help Lew Mills aboard the schooner. To 
add to the confusion the Harvest Home kept coming on 
directly at us. There was nobody aboard save the man 
at the wheel, who seemed determined to make things so 
lively for us that there would be no chance to give aid 
to our schooner and her crew of one. On came the 
schooner headed straight between us and our skipper 
in the dory, threatening to rip the seine into pieces, 
threatening to overturn our seine-boat, but mostly 
threatening to run down the dory with Skipper John 
aboard. The schooner swept past through the middle 
of the seine, not twenty feet of water being between us 
and her sides as she ripped through the twine. Nobody 
had a chance to board her, although the thought flashed 
through the mind of many. 

Decatur Beers was at the wheel, swart and black as 
ever. He gave us no look, for his mind was fixed on 
other things. He must delay the rescue of the Nimbus 
by running through our seine and tangling things up in 
a way that would keep us from the schooner; even to 
upset the dory and give his rival a ducking in the waters 
of the Gulf would serve his purposes and desires admir- 
ably. Whatever his intentions were, nobody, not even 
Beers himself, looked for the affair to turn out as it did. 
As his schooner coursed along toward our seine-boat 
it was impossible for the captain at the wheel to judge 
accurately how near he was running to the dory and its 
occupant. The Harvest Home came on under good 
headway ; it was right upon the dory before our skip- 
per could get out of the way, it crashed full into the 
bows of the dory of the Nimbus and passed on. 

We saw the vessel strike, we heard the crash of splin- 


WHAT HEADMAN’S ROCK SAW ^41 


tering sides, but none witnessed the fate of John Deane 
as the Harvest Home swept on and shut the scene from 
our view. None save irresponsive Headman’s Rock. 
As we anxiously watched it seemed hours before the 
schooner passed and the wreckage of the dory came into 
view. The waters were quiet save for the wake of the 
vengeful schooner. John Deane was nowhere to be 
seen, though we strained every nerve in looking and 
prayed only as strong men pray in the presence of a 
tragedy. One minute passed ; he did not appear at the 
surface. A second, and the strain was breaking us. 

My God, what an awful thing to do ! ” exclaimed 
old Bill, with tears streaming down his weathered face 
and years of age coming over him. 

His were the only words spoken. The time for anger 
had passed. Prayers instead of curses were on men’s 
lips. We were helpless before so heavy a tragedy. I 
slipped off my boots and oil clothes and leaped into the 
water. In a moment I was among the wreck of the 
dory, pawing it over feverishly, rising up out of the 
water as far as possible and looking all about me in 
search of a sign of the missing skipper. Then I turned 
and plunged into the debris of net and splintered wood 
beneath the water time and again in the hope of res- 
cuing John Deane should he be caught in the seine and 
held below the surface. Two others of the crew joined 
me. In an age that could not have been longer than 
ten minutes we worked furiously beneath the waters 
while the crew in the seine-boat pulled in the black twine, 
hoping with every giant haul that they might be so lucky 
as to rescue their beloved captain. 

While we were absorbed in the heart-rending work the 
crew of the Harvest Home had boarded the Nimbus and 
taken charge. Not without due penalty, however, for 
Lew Mills was not a man to give up without a struggle. 
Two men’s heads were cracked with blows of a belaying 


SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


pin, the two sprawled out on the deck at his feet before 
our valiant cook was overcome and beaten down bj the 
onrushing crew. 

“ See, they’ve lambasted the cook and got the 
schooner ! ” cried one of the men in the seine-boat, mo- 
mentarily looking up from his search in the wreckage. 
We looked up just in time to see the last of the struggle, 
how men from behind Lew Mills leaped upon him and 
bore him to the deck, then thrust him unceremoniously 
into the forecastle and closed the slide. We stood help- 
less witnesses to the rape of the Nimbus, a burden too 
heavy for us to bear coming as it did full upon the 
disappearance of her commander. Our cup of sorrow 
and humiliation was filled to overflowing. 

‘‘ What shall we do now ? ” I inquired, after I had 
been pulled aboard the boat completely exhausted by 
my efforts in the water. 

“ Nothing at all, boys,” said Bill, to whom we nat- 
urally turned in the crisis. “ There’s nothing that we 
can do, as I see. We’re caught good and fair, or rather 
by cursed treachery. We’re helpless.” 

Instinctively we looked around us for an avenue of 
escape. There was none in sight ; our own schooner was 
in the hands of the rival crew while the Harvest Home 
was off to the eastward of us a quarter of mile or so, 
drifting about in stays. We could not hope to board 
her and overcome Captain Beers, for the schooner could 
easily outsail us as we rowed. Headman’s Rock offered 
neither shelter nor food. It would be a ten-mile pull to 
the light on Amherst Isle, the only retreat now left us. 

‘‘What’s old Beers doing out there, anyway in- 
quired Clint, who had been watching the schooner for 
some time, trying to fathom the mystery of Beers’ move- 
ments. 

“ Leaving his crew to do the dirty work for him 


WHAT HEADMAN’S ROCK SAW 24B 


aboard our schooner, that’s his trick all right,” re- 
torted Pevear. 

“ No, you’re mistaken there,” interposed George 
Keene. “ He never shirked any piece of dirty work 
yet. He sent all his crew aboard the Nimbus^ if you’ll 
notice. Wonder why? ’Cause he couldn’t trust any of 
them to let him run us down the way he did and drown 
the best man that ever walked a Comberton deck ! ” 

A silence fell on the men at Keene’s words. Instinc- 
tively our eyes turned to the waters where we had 
searched in vain. It made us gulp even to think of the 
dastardly deed. Again we looked toward the Harvest 
Home, wondering why her skipper did not rejoin his 
victorious crew. While we looked the schooner tacked 
about toward us again. In the meantime the Nimbus, 
under command of its strange crew, also turned toward 
us, sailing by close-hauled in the wind. When the 
schooner was passing us one of her crew who proved to 
be one of the Newfoundlanders who had come aboard 
our vessel in the Gut of Canso, shouted out to us in deri- 
sion, “ How would you like to be towed into Hawkes- 
bury ? ” He added insult to his words by waving aloft 
the end of a rope, signifying how eager he was to get 
us out of our predicament. 

In the meantime, the Harvest Home, which had come 
up to the windward of our boat, turned sharply and 
bore down upon us, the helmsman luffing her sails enough 
to make it possible for us to board the schooner. At 
first thought we judged that ’Cate Beers was about to 
renew his murderous designs and sink us with our boat. 
The schooner came up slowly, however, as if to pick us 
up on the port side. We sat at the oars anxiously 
awaiting the turn of events, prepared to pull quickly 
from under the threatening bows should they be turned 
full upon us, also determined to board the schooner and 


244 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE RUMBUS 


throttle at first hand the dastardly Beers if he should 
venture near enough for us to make boarding feasible. 

The schooner came straight on, aiming to come along- 
side us. What could the man mean? Why should 
Beers pick us up while his own crew were aboard the 
other schooner? It would be suicidal for him. Yet we 
were willing to be present at the suicide. The bows 
passed us, the schooner was within striking distance of 
our oars when Bill Spurling called out, “ Go ahead on 
the oars, men, board the cursed slave-ship. Don’t 
spare nobody ! ” 

We dug the oars into the water, the boat swung along- 
side the schooner and half a dozen men, leaping over the 
rail, started aft to wreak vengeance on the man at the 
wheel. 

“ Make the boat fast to the boom, men ! ” 

Could we believe our own ears? That voice, that 
familiar form at the wheel now dripping wet. John 
Deane, alive and in command of the Harvest Home! 
We rushed at him with low shouts of joy, then stopped 
short as we reached the house. On the deck in front of 
him lay Decatur Beers, dead as a haddock, for aught we 
knew. We stood gaping at the quick and the dead, 
open-mouthed and speechless at the sudden turn of 
events and the frightful sight before us. For Nature 
had never intended Decatur Beers to make an attractive 
corpse. There was no need for questions to be asked or 
explanations offered; the scene before us told all too 
well what had been enacted on the deck of the Harvest 
Home while we had supposed John Deane was drowned 
in the wrecking of his dory. 

What a strange turn of events! The crew of the 
Harvest Home, except the captain, in possession of the 
Nimbus; the crew of the Nimbus, excepting our redoubt- 
able cook, on board the Harvest Home; John Deane 
^live at the wheel of his rival’s schooner, and Decatur 


WHAT HEADMAN’S ROCK SAW 245 


Beers sprawled limp and ghastly at his feet! Anger 
and resentment had taken the place of the grief that so 
shortly before had crushed our spirits. We were ready 
for whatever should come. If any of us was figuring 
in his mind how the exchange of crews on the two 
schooners could be effected without a free-for-all fight 
he kept his thoughts to himself. The blow had been 
aimed principally at John Deane; he it was who must 
solve the problem — part of the solution was writ in the 
limp lump at his feet — and we turned to him for a 
complete settlement of our troubles. 

We sailed up to the Nimbus on the starboard tack, 
John Deane still holding the wheel of the Harvest Home. 
As we neared his own schooner he carefully noted the 
distance between the two vessels. “ Stand ready to 
lash the schooners together,” he said in an undertone 
to us. Several of the crew moved forward of the fore- 
mast shrouds with ropes ready, others took station 
amidships. 

“ Here, Bill,” said the skipper, turning to the strong 
man whom we had seen scarce a quarter-hour before 
with cheeks wet with tears, “ lay the schooner alongside 
the Nimbus.^' 

He walked forward quickly and stood on the rail, 
holding to the foremast shrouds. When the Harvest 
Home came within striking distance of the Nimbus he 
leaped from the rail to his own quarter-deck, where a 
dozen of the other crew were gathered. Not one of 
them stirred or offered to prevent his boarding the 
schooner; they could not conjecture what had hap- 
pened to their own commander ; there was no one to lead 
them so they were helpless. John Deane stood in their 
midst, the master of the situation, uncovered, his wet 
clothes clinging to him, his fists clenched and such a 
look of command in his face as we had never seen before 
in the man. There flashed in the minds of all the pic- 


246 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


turc of the young skipper defying and challenging the 
American fleet on the shores of Liverpool harbor. He 
had meant business then, he was in awful earnest now. 
Every eye centered on him. Something terrible had 
happened, or was going to happen, every man of Beers’ 
crew felt with the first look at the skipper when he had 
regained his own deck. The Nimbus was full abreast 
the Harvest Home. 

‘‘ Make fast ! ” came from our commander. 

A dozen men sprang aboard the Nimbus and bound 
the two vessels together. With a motion of his hand 
the skipper directed one of his men to take the wheel of 
the Harvest Home. Some of the crew of the Harvest 
Home, unable to bear the strain that was upon them, 
edged quietly toward their own schooner. When they 
glanced over the rail of the Harvest Home and caught 
sight of the silent form of Decatur Beers under his own 
wheel horror held them in their tracks. 

“ Make our seine-boat fast to the Nimbus. Put 
aboard one of their dories and a set of oars, too,” Skip- 
per John called to his crew. The order was carried 
out speedily. 

“ Now, you pirates,” he exclaimed, turning savagely 
upon the crowd about him, “ get onto your own planks 
quick, before I hang the last one of you from the yard- 
arm ! ” 

The frightened crew did not wait upon the order of 
their going. They were not ordinarily cowards; but 
the uncanny feeling that had come over them stirred 
their most superstitious beliefs. They were only too 
glad to break away from the spell of the powerful per- 
sonality which, while it was upon them, rendered them 
powerless either to think or to act. Like frightened 
sheep they followed one another, fleeing from the threat 
of physical torture only to encounter the horror of 
mental anguish, for as one after the other of them 


WHAT HEADMAN’S ROCK SAW 247 


leaped over the rail to their own deck they almost 
stumbled over the silent, repulsive object whom they 
served through fear. 

“Cast off!” 

The words were spoken with a tone that showed how 
John Deane was only too glad in his heart to withdraw 
from the scene of his most terrible struggle. Even 
while the schooners were drawing apart the form on 
the deck stirred, it uttered an awful groan and raised 
an arm upward which fell to the deck again with a 
crash. Old Bill Spurling turned his wheel over with a 
look of disgust on his face. 

“ What a shame,” he said, looking aloft to catch the 
flutter of the pennant on the foretopmast head. 
“ What a shame to spoil a good wake that way I ” 

Deadman’s Rock was the sole witness of the struggle 
between the two commanders. We learned only a little 
from John Deane; he had been thrown into the water 
when the schooner crashed into his dory but had seized 
the bob-stay and thus been able to draw himself aboard 
the very vessel which had been aimed to injure him. 
Once on deck he removed his boots and moved silently 
toward the stern. Beers was standing by his wheel, 
looking back upon the scene of destruction that his 
hands had wrought. The swish of wet clothing caused 
him to turn. Standing before him was the man who he 
supposed had been drowned, without boots or hat, his 
clothes that had come so near being his shroud, clinging 
flat against his limbs, and a watery trail leading from 
the cabin back across the deck to the knighthead and to 
the would-be grave below that had been cheated of its 
victim. Deadman’s Rock might have told Beers that 
the young captain paused a moment after climbing over 
the knighthead to look back upon the waters and whisper 
hoarsely, as he shook his fist at them, “ I’ve cheated you 
again.” Decatur Beers stared speechless at the appa- 


248 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


rition before him, his hands fell away from the wheel to 
his sides and a deathly pallor overspread his weathered 
features. 

‘‘What did you do.^^” we inquired eagerly, as John 
Deane paused in his narrative of tragic brevity. 

“ We clinched,” was the only answer he would make. 

So many of John Deane’s struggles had been done by 
himself alone! One by one we went apart to picture 
the struggle by ourselves. We saw two men close in 
with deadly grips, saw those herculean arms come to- 
gether about Decatur Beers, felt the stout ribs buckle 
and break under the terrific pressure and pictured the 
strong man, crushed in a heap, falling to the deck. 

Other pictures came to mind ; that first time when the 
boy of fifteen had crushed this same slave-driver in the 
hold of the self-same schooner; the stormy night when 
our young skipper, at risk of his own life, rescued the 
unfortunate seaman from a watery grave; the afternoon 
on the Liverpool shore, with ’Cate Beers hurled at the 
feet of the onlooking crowd; and more recently in the 
Gut of Canso when John Dean spared breaking his 
opponent’s bones and flung him into the sea instead. 
The work of John Deane’s hands we had known and seen 
many times ; yet we could not shut out of mind this last 
picture, — the sight of Decatur Beers broken at his own 
wheel, his eyeballs rolled up as lusterless as lead sinkers, 
that purple tongue protruding idiot-like, the better 
parts of the man crushed, the beastly exposed in all their 
coarseness. 

The two schooners sailed farther and farther apart 
under the glow of the long twilight. One skipper was 
silent, without bitterness in his heart, looking forward 
to a better to-morrow ; the other a broken body, a lost 
soul, lay gasping piteously through the hard hours of 
the night, “ Air 1 For God’s sake, give me air ! ” 


CHAPTER XXVII 


THE WRATH OF THE WINDS 

T he episode at Headman’s Rock marked the be- 
ginning of the end. Not of Decatur Beers, for 
more trying ordeals were ahead of him before the 
fishing season should end. But our luck never was the 
same thereafter. No favoring breezes followed us on 
the seas, few sunny days came to draw the mackerel to 
the surface where they might be taken in larger num- 
bers. Instead were the constant roar and swirl of wind 
and storm, and the yeasty breakers always fringing the 
rocky shores of the Magdalenes. For months John 
Deane had outrivaled all others on the trail of the 
mackerel, often in the face of outstanding odds. 
From this time he was fortune’s child no more. Not 
even his might and skill could prevail against the power 
of the seas. Often adversity is the true test of the 
soul ; it is in the afternoon that the day’s work can best 
be judged. During the late days of the fishing season 
John Deane’s real nature showed to the best advantage. 

The crash of a thunderstorm burst upon us that very 
night with a suddenness and fury that nearly caught us 
off our guard. As it was we leaped to the halyards and 
let the sails come down on the run, tangling down-hauls 
and halyards in a confused mass and jambing the jaws 
of the maingafF firmly against the mainmast. Prompt 
action only saved the schooner from capsizing. A 
deluge of water fell upon us from the skies. Vivid 
flashe3 of lightning leaped out from behind darkened 


250 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


clouds, blinding us instead of giving help and leaving 
intense after-images of ropes and canvas in a mass of 
Ethiopian blackness about the ship. The wind rushed 
through the rigging in mad career. It tossed the great 
canvas of the mainsail like a handkerchief over the rail 
or yanked it unfeelingly from our hands when we at- 
tempted to furl it on the long boom. Throughout the 
night we ran under reefed foresail and jumbo. It was a 
little after dawn that the anchor was dropped from the 
prow and the schooner tossed restlessly in the one-sided 
harbor of Tantinore, on Grindstone island. Other 
schooners were there, four of the American fleet when 
we arrived and later in the day the Harvest Home, 

In the morning of another day the wind shifted and 
drove the little fleet out of Tantinore harbor. Down 
we rushed before the tempest of wind to Amherst island. 
There in the lee of Cow Head we anchored with forty- 
flve fathoms of cable out and rocked out the storm, the 
wind all the while howling fresh and cold from the north- 
west. It died away before the second day. 

We skirted the eastern coast northward to Entry and 
Coffin islands, searching everywhere for schools of mack- 
erel. None was seen, none had been seen since we came 
to the Magdalenes. Every barrel that we took aboard 
had been lured from ocean bottom by throwing bait from 
our deck, then either hooking the mackerel with a jig or 
setting the seine about the schooner. It was a wearying 
process, so slow and discouraging. On a day we made 
eight settings of the seine to be rewarded by thirteen 
wash-barrels of fish. Good wages for laboring men, to 
be sure; but there were many lean days as well, when 
our endeavors were for naught or when stormy seas 
stifled our ambition to work. A few clear days had fol- 
lowed our flight from Tantinore, which meant work- 
days of the longest hours. Five or six barrels of mack- 
erel a day was all we could expect now ; even at this 


THE WRATH OF THE WINDS 


^51 


low rate we dared not risk leaving the grounds for other 
untried regions. 

For a couple of days we fished off the Junks of Pork 
with six barrels of mackerel to reward our efforts. 
When night came on we ran inshore and anchored under 
the lee of the land. At the Magdalenes, we were at lib- 
erty to catch mackerel as near to the shore as prudence 
would dictate, for the islands are not included in the 
three-mile limit of other Canadian littorals. A south- 
east wind drove us from the Junks of Pork. Again the 
schooner fled before the rising gale, this time to the 
northward around the islands where anchor was cast in 
Goodwin’s Cove. 

The gale increased in fury as the hours passed. We 
salted down the larger seine on deck, took the extra 
seine-boat aboard the schooner, stripped the second boat 
clean of everything except the purse-weights, lashed 
both seines to the deck, put a single reef in the mainsail 
before furling it on the great boom, took the “ bonnet ” 
out of the jib, and cleared the decks of everything that 
might be swept away by boarding seas. We were 
stripped for a sea-fight. A dozen vessels were at anchor 
in the harbor, five of them being American seiners. A 
double anchor-watch was set but nothing unusual oc- 
curred during the night except an increase in the fury 
of the storm. At nine the next morning under the shift- 
ing winds Tom Paris’ schooner broke away from her 
anchorage and had to put to sea. We began to get 
under way at once. Just as we manned the brakes the 
Nimbus, too, began to drift; one of the anchor flukes 
was badly bent when it was hoisted to the rail. Under 
reefed foresail and jumbo we rushed after Tom Paris 
to the shelter of Tantinore again. We had made a 
circuit of the Magdalenes within a week, not from choice 
but through necessity. And thus were we buffeted 
about the Magdalenes. With such toil and with such 


252 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


strife against the elements are the uncertain rewards of 
the deep-sea fishermen secured! 

When the storm had spent itself the little fleet of 
seiners hurried out again from the uncertain shelter of 
Tantinore to resume their business of luring the reluc- 
tant mackerel from the ocean’s bottom. This time the 
Harvest Home sailed with the rest of the fleet; during 
the time we were making the circuit of the Magdalenes 
the schooner had remained at Tantinore to allow De- 
catur Beers a chance to recover from the effects of his 
encounter with the skipper of the Nimbus. We sailed 
off to Amherst isle once more, content that our new 
ventures proved as successful as at any other spot 
around the hostile Magdalenes. For half a week we 
enjoyed the favor of the god of sunny skies — a happy 
respite from the uncertainty of the past and, as it 
proved, a treacherous interlude between the angry pas- 
sion plays of the primal elements. For the opening of 
the grand opera season of gales was upon us. 

The fishermen of the Gulf will never forget that gale. 
It fell upon the North Bay with a power and terror 
that wreaked vengeance upon any unlucky craft that 
had found no shelter from its merciless wrath. Nothing 
like it had been seen since the famous “ Yankee gale ” 
twenty years before, when the schooners of the Ameri- 
can fleet were caught on the northerly coast of Prince 
Edward Island, a lee shore that afforded little shelter 
from the hideousness of the storm. The gale that struck 
the Gulf at this time gave scant warning to the mariners 
about the islands of the Gulf. The barometer fell fast. 
A dozen seiners off First Chapel read the warning and 
scurried away like wild fowl in their flight to the shelter 
of the breakwater at Souris. One by one they turned 
East Point safely and entered the two-sided harbor at 
Souris before the waves rolled high and the oncoming 
darkness could prevent a safe entrance to the port. 


THE WRATH OF THE WINDS 


25S 


Once in the harbor the men lashed their schooners to 
the wharf with many loops of strong cable, one vessel 
to another and the whole to the pilings of the wharf to 
prevent them from being torn away and flung upon the 
nearby shores. Schooners coming in later anchored 
under the lee of the breakwater. This was constructed 
of wooden timbers locked together and anchored with 
tons of rocks. It ran out five hundred feet from the 
shore with its farthest end surmounted by a light 
twenty-five feet above the wave to guide incoming craft 
safely into the harbor. 

No man in Souris slept that night. At the wharves 
the fishermen kept constant watch of the mooring lines, 
for the strain upon them increased with the blackness of 
the night. Ships anchored under the lee of the break- 
water were deluged with floods of water before midnight 
came. Torrents from the sea struck the protruding 
wall of wood and burst over it in a constant storm of 
spray and foam. The wind shrieked in unbridled rage 
hour upon hour while the rising flood of waves and tide 
added their deep-toned blows to the confusion that the 
wind had brought. Fences were blown down, buildings 
unroofed, trees torn up by their roots. Ships in the 
harbor lost many of their upper sails, for no skipper 
in the fleet dared send a man aloft to retrieve a sail once 
the strong fingers of the wind had pried the canvas from 
its fastenings. Morning dawned upon a dismantled vil- 
lage and a broken port. At early dawn the giant blows 
of the pounding sea broke through the middle of the 
breakwater, ripping out a fifty-foot section and letting 
in a seething torrent which hurled itself with endless 
rage through the ragged opening. One schooner barcl}' 
escaped the wreckage when the wall of wood was torn 
from its foundations and broken to pieces before it 
could be driven ashore. One of her crew, a negro, fool- 
ishly attempted to place a cable from the schooner about 


254* SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


a piling on the breakwater. He was swept before the 
onrushing floods and hurled into the maelstrom of 
wreckage in the harbor, so helpless was the strength 
of man against the might of the seas and winds. 

With the break of day men rushed to the headland 
half a mile from the harbor to search the seas for 
schooners less fortunate than theirs in finding a harbor 
and refuge from the gale. The wind caught them and 
hurled them back off their feet. They settled down 
upon their knees to hold their position against the ter- 
rific wind or leaned for support against the shoulders 
of others who were kneeling. Far out across the 
troubled waters of the bay they caught fleeting glimpses 
of two schooners which appeared and disappeared from 
view as they were lost in the trough of the seas or 
appeared momentarily on the crest of the waves that 
were everywhere lashed with enveloping sheets of white 
spray. The onlookers did not know at the time that 
the two schooners were the Nimbus and the Harvest 
Home, both from Comberton. 

It was a strange fate that drove the two schooners 
together into the terror of the storm. We had seen the 
dirty-gray lee-set, the streaked sky and the falling of 
the barometer. We had had enough of the Magdalenes, 
too, and there was no desire on the part of either skip- 
per to be blown from one harbor to another in the rising 
gale. Thus early in the day the schooners were turned 
from Amherst isle and headed for East Point on Prince 
Edward Island. 

Night overtook us in the midst of the Gulf, a night 
such as two decades of men had not seen. What a night 
aboard the two schooners! For months they had been 
together, each gleaning a rich harvest from the seas. 
Now they were fighting to ward off the angry wolves 
of the seas that time after time leaped over the rails of 
the schooners in their hunt for human prey in the dark- 


THE WRATH OF THE WINDS 


255 


ness and storm. They fought the elements as only Com- 
berton schooners could, for the night of the wind and 
wave had no mercy on man or his craft. They were 
tossed and hurled about at the mercy of the gale, help- 
less to give one another aid in their helplessness, yet no 
man was on either schooner whose heart was not glad- 
dened by the companionship of the other crew upon the 
turbulent waters. The Nimbus took the lead of the 
other, for her stern was deep in the water and she 
could beat to windward as the other could not. A lan- 
tern was hung to our mainboom, sending its fleck of 
light through the murkiness of the storm and giving the 
anxious watchers aboard the Harvest Home the only 
human hope there was on the wild wastes during those 
hours of terror. 

No man aboard our schooner had known a gale like 
that. The little schooner was tossed upward time and 
again by the wind and wave, its bow going high in the 
air only to plunge downward frightfully into the craters 
between the waves. Over the starboard and again to 
port she was hurled with her masts all but touching the 
waves; but she always came back from the waters. 
Seas broke over her bows and over the rails alike, sweep- 
ing from stem to stern in an irresistible rush. Double 
life-lines were strung between the fore and aft shrouds 
and from the mainrigging to the quarter-rail cleats. 
The seine-boat was lashed anew to the port rail. The 
dory that we had taken from the Harvest Home in 
return for ours that was destroyed by her was torn from 
its lashings by the boarding seas and swept overboard ; 
only the protecting interposition of the main-house 
saved the two seines, lashed though they were, from a 
similar fate. 

Through every hour of the night John Deane stood 
at the wheel except when the seas which boarded the 
schooner swept him more than once into the lee scup- 


256 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


pers after breaking his hold at the wheel; it was only 
the strong rope about his waist that kept him lashed 
to his place and prevented him from being swept into 
the seas by the fearful rush of the waters. Part of his 
crew were above deck with him during half of the night, 
ready to give help if any were needed, and clinging as 
best they could to the shrouds or standing rigging or 
the mainboom. Others of the crew were below in the 
forecastle or cabin with the gangways closed tight 
against the floods, reeling about like drunken men, each 
man clad in his oilskins and wondering to himself how 
he would look when the waves washed his body ashore, if 
they should be so kind as to do that instead of batting 
him back and forth on the bottom sands until they wore 
him out like driftwood. 

So we came through the dreadful night conquerors 
over elements at their worst. When morning came — 
that morning had no dawn — there was nothing about 
us but the raging seas, nothing save the uncertain shore 
that we thought we saw and the Harvest Homey strug- 
gling two miles astern and a long way to leeward. In- 
wardly every man gave thanks that he had been spared 
to see the lurid light that followed the black night — 
for it is against the human grain to be swallowed up 
at night without knowing where or how it happens. We 
were still fighting when our schooner was discovered by 
the anxious watchers on the headland at Souris, fighting 
for every inch we gained against the wind, fighting from 
being swamped, fighting to reach Souris harbor which, 
unknown to us, was only half a harbor now. 

Old Bill Spurling crept back from his station at the 
mainmast where he had remained during the night, crept 
along the top of the house, holding to the mainboom for 
support. He yelled down to the skipper from the top 
of the closed cabin-slide, “ How’s she heading up, skip- 
per.^ ” 


THE WRATH OF THE WINDS 


257 


It was a fine thing for Bill Spurling to stay by his 
captain that night, always at hand if counsel or strong 
arm was needed, never volunteering a suggestion to the 
young skipper, or implying by word or gesture that he 
did not have implicit confidence that the best man to 
command the Nimbus in that gale was the submerged 
young giant at the wheel. 

‘‘ We’ll go in on a pinch. Bill. Get both anchors 
ready. Stand by to cut the lashings. Short chain ! ” 
the skipper yelled back at him. 

With infinite watchfulness against the seas Bill and 
his picked crew overhauled short chain and cable alike, 
secured the anchors so they could be released from the 
rail by a blow of the ax, and distributed the crew in the 
bows and at the shortened foresail in preparation for 
the dash into Souris harbor. 

“ The seine-boat’s gone ! ” cried one of the men, point- 
ing astern to the boat. 

Not gone, but broken open by the waves during the 
night. One of them had ripped open her stern and we 
were towing a useless hulk. 

“ Cut the cable and let her go ! ” called the skipper. 

The loss of the boat was a great help to the strug- 
gling schooner ; she kept into the wind better and enabled 
the skipper to try for the harbor without another tack. 
We were only a quarter-mile from the breakwater when 
the skipper rolled the wheel down and turned the bows 
of the Nimbus straight toward the seething sands of the 
shore. How she rolled over to port as her stern came 
into the wind ! It was a tense moment but she righted 
splendidly. Every moment was tense. It would be a 
miracle to save the schooner from being dashed upon 
the shore before she could be turned into her anchorage 
and the anchors get a grip that would hold her in place. 

What a harbor to enter ! Schooners lining both sides 
of the wharf four tier deep. Others anchored off the 


258 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


wharf in every best anchorage. Still others, a forest of 
masts showing through the spray, holding their ground 
under the breakwater and giving no chance for an in- 
coming schooner to enter astern of them without grave 
risk of being beached. In the midst of the mass of 
ships, where one would need to guide his craft without 
running others down, was the whirlpool of waters rush- 
ing through the opening of the breakwater and driving 
all vessels from its path. Little wonder that the skip- 
pers and old seamen left the headland and rushed to the 
wharves as John Deane turned the bow of the Nimbus 
toward the breakwater’s end. 

It was a frightful sight for them, if a grand one. 
Into every one’s life comes some greatest moment. This 
was ours as it was theirs on the wharf who beheld the 
master mariner handle his schooner that morning. A 
fleeing schooner, stripped clean for the race, was headed 
toward shipwreck, or safety ; eighteen fishermen, warm 
and hopeful, to be rescued or drowned, inside two min- 
utes ; a young skipper, bareheaded at the wheel, a life- 
line about his waist, his keen eye sweeping the harbor 
for the best course; the veteran Spurling on the house 
above him motioning with his arms — for nothing could 
be heard in the roar of the waters — signaling the course 
down to the man at the wheel; a bunch of men at the 
bows ready to cut the anchors from the rails ; another 
group in yellow jackets, with faces bleached by the 
night’s sleet, huddled about the foresail halyards. This 
fleeting glimpse only. Then the Nimbus dashed from 
the clearer waters to bury herself from the view of on- 
lookers in the blinding storm of waves that poured over 
the breakwater. 

The schooner turned sharply Inshore at the end of the 
breakwater, rushing along between the wall of wood on 
one side and the row of protruding bowsprits on the 
port side, every one of which seemed to jab into her 


THE WRATH OF THE WINDS 


259 


shrouds as she fled past. When she emerged from the 
blinding spray she struck a clear space of water, the 
roaring cataract of brine that poured through the break 
in the wall. She was heading straight for schooners 
anchored near the wharf when John Deane whirled the 
wheel hard down to bring her into the wind before she 
should ram the other ships. The jumbo came down with 
a rush, the bow of the schooner turned quickly under the 
control of the rudder, and just when she was about to 
drift off before the wind and torrent the two anchors 
plunged from the rails to grip the bottom and hold the 
Nimbus in place. And all was over! As John Deane 
reached down to unfasten the rope from his waist the 
hoarse cheers of men on the wharf were wafted through 
the frightful din to his ears. They knew what it meant 
to save his schooner, to save his men, and to keep the 
black crepe from fishermen’s homes. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


THE PASSING OF A SCHOONER 


» soon as we could launch the seine-boat we pulled 



ashore and followed the crowd which had rushed 


back to the headland after they had made sure 
of our safe arrival. On the headland the watchers were 
leaning against the wind, their bodies inclined seaward at 
a sharp angle. Their faces were turned toward the 
frothy line of breakers that skirted the shore for half a 
mile out into the open waters. 

“ That’s the finest thing I ever saw done, skipper,” 
said Captain Miles, stepping forward to greet John 
Deane as we came up. 

“ Didn’t believe it could be done, for a fact, .John,” 
exclaimed Duncan Cameron, meeting grip with grip that 
told more than volumes of words. “ You’ve kept many 
folks at home from being widows or orphans this day, 


boy.” 


“ I’m feared there’s more to be saved that can’t,” 
said another veteran huskily, extending one horny hand 
to Skipper John and pointing seaward with the other. 
“ That’s the tough part of bein’ a fisherman — goin’ 
right square onto the rocks and they can’t help it more’n 
if they was babies.” 

“ What’s the schooner, skipper, do you know.^ ” asked 
another of the group. “ We can’t jest make her out 
with only a smitch of sail showing and the waves piling 
over her so.” 

‘‘ The Harvest Home,'" answered John Deane, speak- 
ing for the first time since he left the Nimbus anchored 


260 


THE PASSING OF A SCHOONER 261 


in the harbor. He looked at the laboring schooner 
sharply before he continued. “ She left the Magdalenes 
with us yesterday morning and followed astern of us all 
night. She was a mile or more to leeward when we ran 
in here.” 

“The Harvest Home! Why, that’s ’Cate Beers’ 
schooner ! ” exclaimed another of the men who pressed 
about the skipper. “ It don’t seem like Beers would let 
his schooner get in a tight place like that. ’Tain’t like 
the man.” 

“ You’re right, man. Beers ought to know when he’s 
on a lee shore,” exclaimed a fellow who had shipped for 
several seasons with the skipper of the Harvest Home, 

“ ’Cate ain’t been feelin’ tolerably well lately, I’ve 
heard,” ventured Bill Spurling. “ P’raps that has 
something to do with the handling of the Harvest 
Homer 

At the words John Deane looked intently at Bill. A 
thought flashed through his mind. He turned to the 
sea, looking at the schooner for a long time with his 
hands raised to protect the wind from his eyes. 

“ She never can make it ! ” exclaimed Miles, following 
the course of the schooner closely. “ She can’t possibly 
fetch by the ledges off the point there, and she’s got 
where she can’t tack ship, neither.” 

The crowd agreed with the captain, however loath 
they were to admit it. The Harvest Home was strug- 
gling against too great odds. The tide was setting 
westward, carrying the schooner inshore rather than 
off. The waves thundered upon her, smothering her 
Headway whenever she attempted to turn a little more 
into the wind and pounding her always toward the white 
shore line. The wind held from the south, stronger and 
fiercer than winds for two decades ; it headed her off 
from gaining entrance to the harbor and wedged her 
constantly closer to the hidden rocks. We caught occa- 


SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


sional glimpses of the schooner through the waves and 
storm, then other floods would wipe her completely from 
the view, or she would settle away with a deep lurch into 
a yawning valley. As it proved, the master’s hand no 
longer guided the Harvest Home. Decatur Beers had 
done his last service for her during the long hours of 
the dreadful night. With the coming of day he left the 
keeping of the schooner in other hands and went to his 
berth no longer able to bear up from the pain in his 
chest. 

So the ill-fated schooner lurched and drifted until she 
no longer could retreat to the wider waters beyond 
East Point nor make enough headway against the tem- 
pest to keep off the lee shore. A half hour before she 
struck we knew her fate was sealed; for a longer time 
her crew realized that she was doomed, yet no man among 
them dared tell the news to the groaning man in the 
cabin. It made little difference, perhaps, for the 
schooner was past any help of human hand or mind. 
She struck on the ledges with a crash that stove in her 
bows and brought the captain, wild-eyed and cursing, 
from the cabin. 

Then the sea wolves which had waited twelve years 
for the Harvest Home fell to their feast. The elements 
of sky and sea alike thundered upon the stricken ship. 
Gale upon gale answered the shriek of the wind through 
the rigging like sea gulls flocking to the call of mates 
that have found prey. Waves that had tossed the 
schooner high on their crests or rolled her deep in their 
troughs now broke over her rails unchecked in volume 
and fury. It seemed as if the gods of the sea were 
swooping up with unseen, immeasurable hands the deep- 
est waters of the North Bay to hurl them upon the 
prostrate victim of their wrath. 

Meanwhile the group on the headland were helpless 


THE PASSING OF A SCHOONER 263 


witnesses of the tragedy being enacted before them. 
There must have been men among them who thought of 
giving aid to the shipwrecked crew but none except John 
Deane gave expression to his thoughts ; there appeared 
no way to rescue except by exposing other vessels and 
lives to a similar fate. When Bill Spurling hinted that 
possibly Decatur Beers was unable to handle his schooner 
as the crisis demanded John Deane fell to pondering the 
matter. His conclusion, reached in short order, was 
that he, in a measure, was responsible for the perilous 
plight of the ship-wrecked crew since his hands had 
brought the skipper of the Harvest Home to his present 
weakened condition. When the schooner dashed upon 
the ledges and we no longer could see her for the white 
breakers that smothered her decks John Deane cried out 
to the astonishment of all, “ Those men must be saved ! ” 

The crowd turned to him eager to undertake any haz- 
ard that promised a rescue of the crew without greater 
risk to the rescuers. 

“ It can’t be done, skipper ! ” cried Duncan Cameron, 
earnestly. ‘‘ It can’t be done ! God help the poor fel- 
lows, for we can’t ! ” 

“ But they must be saved ! ” Deane repeated with 
emphasis, distressed with the others that men were being 
swallowed up before his very eyes with no helping hand 
extended toward them. 

“ Why, it’s impossible, captain,” I roke in another 
veteran. “ A boat couldn’t live in those breakers a 
minute, even if you should be able to launch one.” 

“ Save them from the other side! ” cried John Deane. 
‘‘ Save them with a ship.” 

A ship, man ! No ship can live out there I Look at 
that one now on the rocks 1 How much better off would 
another one be ? ” argued Cameron. 

“ They can be saved I They must be I I’ve got to 


264 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


get him, I tell you. A ship can live out there if she’s 
handled right,” exclaimed the skipper, turning earnestly 
to the men about him. 

‘‘ ’Twould be crazy to risk a ship and crew to try to 
pick off those men, skipper. Half of them will be gone 
before a ship could get to them,” exclaimed Bill Spur- 
ling, entering into the conversation with an eagerness 
that showed only too clearly his purpose to head off 
John Deane from an undertaking that would add calam- 
ity to calamity. John Deane was immovable; he could 
see no danger, he thought only of the rescue. Once he 
had decided that a project should be done all other con- 
siderations ceased. It ought to be done, therefore it 
could be done, was the beginning and end of his philos- 
ophy. 

“ I’m going to save those men,” he answered almost 
bitterly, looking with straining eyes toward the wreck. 
“ I’ve got to get him.” 

You’re a crazy loon if you risk your life for that 
dog out there,” I replied, pointing to the wreck of De- 
catur Beers’ schooner. 

On the instant John Deane clapped his hand over my 
mouth, shoving me backward to the ground. Then with- 
out further words he turned from the crowd and hastened 
back toward the wharf. I caught the look of his gleam- 
ing eye as I scrambled to my feet, humiliated and angry 
at the unexpected rebuff ; yet I was close on his heels 
when he put off in the seine-boat to board the Nimbus. 
Others had followed him to the wharf and volunteered 
eagerly to go with him, if their help was needed. 

“ Thank you, men,” he replied. “ That’s fine of you 
to oflPer but I’m sure my crew will be enough.” 

What a master of men was this master mariner ! 

No question in his mind how his crew would respond, 
although many of them had wives and children who 
needed their services fully as much, perhaps, as the un- 


THE PASSING OF A SCHOONER ^65 


fortunate crew of Decatur Beers. They counted that 
the great event in their lives, to have it said that they 
had gone with John Deane when he risked ship and crew 
alike for the captain and crew of the Harvest Home. 
It is the big thing in life that draws men out of them- 
selves into the lives of their fellows. 

We had come in harbor through a cloud of driven 
spray from the breakwater, we went out much slower 
against the spray and wind and seas. Lucky for us that 
the Nimbus had a hundred odd barrels of mackerel in the 
mainhold. They were the product of the long Magda- 
lene days when every barrel had been almost literally 
‘‘hand picked.” Now they served the schooner to a 
good purpose since she was trimmed properly for beat- 
ing to windward. The wind, too had checked to the 
westward a couple of points since our arrival which 
made our exit against greater odds. But John Deane 
knew his schooner and he expected success. 

It is by expecting much that much is accomplished. 
When John Deane had reached the headland overlook- 
ing the sea and witnessed the ill-fated Comberton 
schooner driven helplessly on the rocks the impulse arose 
in him to go to their rescue. We cannot fathom human 
passions and inclinations ; they are born in the stress of 
circumstances. Why should he, of all the veteran sea- 
man on the Souris headland, take so great a risk ? The 
thought never entered his mind that this captain and his 
endangered crew had been hounding his steps for weeks, 
that they had destroyed his boats, scattered his schools 
of mackerel, misrepresented him to the officials of a for- 
eign government, even boarded his schooner by treach- 
ery to seize her, and, as a last act, used this very broken 
vessel as an instrument which came near causing his own 
death. The men clinging helpless to the rigging of the 
Harvest Home were human beings, they were fishermen 
like himself and his own crew. A half score of his fel- 


266 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


low townsmen were in the shaking shrouds, praying to 
be delivered as he and his crew had been delivered. 
They had followed his light throughout the night. Was 
he, in whom they had trusted as a guide, to prove a false 
prophet and lure their ship on the ledges and themselves 
to death? They were yearning for a chance to return 
to wives and little children — now perilously on the 
verge of becoming widows and orphans — wives and chil- 
dren whom John Deane had known for years in Com- 
berton. The wharves of Comberton never again would 
have a charm for him, if he returned to the Latona 
river without attempting the rescue of Decatur Beers 
and his crew. This was his job and his alone. 

Once the Nimbus was clear of the Souris breakwater 
the run down to the ship on the rocks was done easily 
and quickly. No time to be wasted, though, for the 
Hawest Home was fast breaking up. She rested on the 
ledges, her port side exposed to the full force of the 
waves, her patch of foresail and jumbo already blown to 
shreds and the seas pounding down the rails with thun- 
derous blows that knew no ceasing. The men were clus- 
tered like yellow hornets in the rigging, seven in the 
forerigging, four in the mainrigging, Decatur Beers 
lashed above the port lantern with ropes that his men 
had placed about him. The seas smothered everything 
below the rigging in their wild dash over the schooner, 
while the waves, striking against the sides of the Harvest 
Home, were flung high into the shrouds as if they were 
wild animals leaping toward their victims. For an hour 
the men had hung in the rigging hoping at first for re- 
lief, seeing none possible either from the land or the sea, 
then giving themselves up to their fate which would in- 
evitably come when the masts gave way and plunged the 
men into the seas. When Death was reaching up from 
below to drag them into the seas and all hope had been 
abandoned, when some were crossing themselves and 


THE PASSING OF A SCHOONER ^67 


others staring wild-ejed across the seas and wondering 
how the little boy and girl at home would grow up and 
how the mother could provide for them all, a man in the 
upper part of the foremast shrouds shrieked out in the 
madness of his joy, “A sail! A sail! Coming out of 
Souris ! ” 

John Deane had made his plans before he left the 
headland; he had noted the location of the dangerous 
ledges, the lay of the shore to the eastward and the direc- 
tion of the wind. As the Nimbus dashed through the 
seas toward the reef he made careful preparation to 
effect a speedy rescue. Four men were to go in the 
seine-boat with him, none of them with families de- 
pendent upon them. Bill Spurling was to have com- 
mand of the schooner, was told what to do even to the 
detail of finally casting the seine-boat adrift if towing 
her should endanger the safety of the Nimbus and the 
others of the crew aboard. In a rush of floods that 
tumbled over the schooner she was brought into the 
wind half a thousand feet to the windward of the wreck, 
the port anchor was let go, the seine-boat drawn along- 
side to allow John Deane and his four men to get 
aboard. The men leaped into the boat, several coils of 
rope were flung aboard, extra oars were placed on the 
thwarts between the rowers, together with buckets for 
bailing out the seas that might come into the boat. The 
boat-painter was made secure to the schooner, cables 
were fastened to it and the seine-boat was lowered astern 
toward the wreck of the Hardest Home, Just as it was 
leaving the side of the Nimbus, without asking leave of 
John Deane, I leaped into the bow of the boat. 

While the seine-boat was nearing the wreck John 
Deane stripped oflp his oilclothes, his sou’wester, his 
boots and his coat. He fastened one end of a coil of 
rope about his waist, the other to one of the thwarts. 
This done he gave himself to directing the men at the 


268 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


oars that the boat should be guided straight toward the 
schooner. Drifting before the gale was an easy matter 
for us compared with our experiences as soon as we 
drew near the wreck and the cable from the schooner 
held the boat up before the storm. The men at the 
oars could do little except steer the boat, we were de- 
pendent upon the judgment of Bill Spurling aboard the 
Nimbus to keep us near enough to the wreck to take the 
men off safely, but not so close as to endanger the boat 
by striking against the vessel or getting in between the 
rigging. 

The boat first swung near the mainrigging where four 
men were clinging to the shrouds. Two of them leaped 
for the boat while it was still twenty feet from the 
schooner. Both went beneath the surface. One came 
up immediately and grasped an oar that I held out to 
him, for I had scrambled to the stern of the boat where 
the men would be taken aboard. While the first was 
being pulled aboard John Deane leaped from the steer- 
ing deck of the boat into the sea after the second man. 
He reappeared at the surface shortly clutching a bunch 
of yellow oilskins and we pulled the two to the seine- 
boat. By this time the boat had swung nearer to the 
schooner and the remaining two men in the mainrigging 
leaped into the stern of the boat. By aid of the oars 
the boat was swung forward toward the fore-shrouds. 
Two of the rescued men seated themselves at the thwarts 
of the boat and helped our men with the extra oars that 
John Deane had provided. 

A great wave lifted the seine-boat aloft so that we 
seemed almost to look into the eyes of the men clinging 
to the shrouds. Only for a moment ; the next, we were 
racing down a declivity and away from the men who were 
just on the point of being rescued from their perilous 
position. It was some minutes before the boat could be 
placed near the rigging again ; water in huge sheets came 


THE PASSING OF A SCHOONER 269 


over our bows and w’e had to resort to the buckets to 
clear the water before we made further ventures at rescu- 
ing the men. 

Again we swung toward the schooner. Two men 
leaped toward us in their anxiety, then a third followed. 
I threw a line over the head and shoulders of one as he 
came to the surface, John Deane flung himself again into 
the seas to rescue the others. Both of them grabbed him 
and but for the stout rope that held him to the seine- 
boat he would have been dragged with the men below the 
waters. We pulled heartily on the rope, though, and 
brought them to the rail where they were dumped into 
the boat by their own eager shipmates. Skipper John 
shook the water from his eyes and hair, then stood with 
muscles tight ready to spring into the seas for the others 
of the shipwrecked crew. What a man of iron in that 
hour ! 

Again two yellow streaks dropped from the shrouds 
to plunge below the surface and hope to be pulled aboard 
the boat. One caught hold of a friendly oar, the second 
clung desperately to the rope that was thrown out to 
him. Only three men were left in the rigging when the 
seine-boat was dashed away from the schooner a dis- 
tance of fifty feet or more by the rough seas. It was 
hard getting her back into place even though we had 
eight men at the oars now. When we were hoisted to 
the top of another great comber tbe man highest up 
in the shrouds took a flying leap toward the boat. 
Down he came with a rush and crash, for the poor fel- 
low struck against the side of the boat with a heavy 
blow, breaking one of his arms and cutting an ugly 
wound across his face. He was pulled in, as we slid 
away again into another trough, and for a time lay 
senseless in the bottom of the boat. The last two of the 
crew leaped for the boat when it swung near the sub- 
merged shrouds of the Harvest Home, There remained 


270 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


only Decatur Beers, lashed and helpless high up in his 
own rigging. 

He looked down upon us and cried out so loud that 
we heard it above the din of the tempest, ‘‘ Keep off ! 
Save the men ! ” And he motioned with his arms for the 
seine-boat to take the rescued members of his crew 
aboard the schooner. John Deane already had made a 
remarkable rescue of the shipwrecked men, who loaded 
his seine-boat heavily in the water. We now saw his 
wisdom in taking so few of his own crew in the boat to 
effect the rescue, for the men from the Harvest Home 
were at the oars ready to pull themselves from the 
wrecked schooner. We had done enough, I thought, so 
I shouted in the skipper’s ear, “ He’s right ! It’s time 
to be going back ! ” 

“ I must get him,” John Deane answered huskily. 
Pulling his knife from his pocket he held it, with the 
blade open, between his teeth. Then he leaped from the 
stern of the boat and swam toward the rigging. A 
great wave overwhelmed him, dragging him down as it 
swept onward. When the billow had passed we dis- 
covered him close by the schooner’s side. He reached 
for the shrouds and barely got hold of the lowest rat- 
line when another sea blotted him from view and buried 
him ten feet below its surface. Even at that he had 
climbed higher into the rigging while under water. 
When the wave passed John Deane was clinging to the 
shrouds, sleek and wet and powerful as a sea-otter in 
the wave, the knife still firmly wedged between his teeth. 
In spite of the waves that struck him repeatedly to break 
his hold and drive him back he climbed nearer the man 
above him. 

Decatur Beers, with the rope lashed about his chest 
and his hands clutching at the shrouds, looked down 
upon the figure emerging from the sea. The dark form 


THE PASSING OF A SCHOONER 271 


below crept upward, one long arm reaching above the 
other, the white impassionate face and gleaming knife 
between the teeth adding a strange look to this giant of 
the seas. Beers, tortured in soul as he was in body, 
shrieked aloud against the winds and fury of the tem- 
pest. 

“ Keep off ! In God’s name, let me die with my ves- 
sel ! ” 

A huge wave swept over us, driving the boat far away 
from the schooner’s side. When I again looked at the 
men in the shrouds John Deane was slashing away with 
his knife, slashing the rope to free Decatur Beers. The 
ropes parted and fell away into the water. Beers 
toppled weak and helpless against the young man at his 
side. The knife ripped again and the rope at John 
Deane’s waist was cut. Then the knife, too, was flung 
into the sea. He passed the rope about the body of the 
captain and fastened it securely. He glanced down at 
us, an anxious look in his face if he ever had one; he 
watched the waves for a favorable moment, then, to the 
astonishment of all, he leaped backward into the seething 
flood with Decatur Beers clasped firmly in his own arms. 
The two men — Comberton products, rivals, enemies — 
disappeared headforemost in the waves. 

It was a long time before they came to the surface 
and then only as we pulled them against the side of the 
seine-boat. Decatur Beers’ great back came up first, 
rounded with the strain of the rope. His arms were 
tightly clasped in front of him holding in their embrace 
the man who had saved him from the wreck. A crimson 
streak trickled down John Deane’s face and neck from a 
gash in his head where he had struck a piece of wreck- 
age in the leap from the shrouds into the sea. So it was 
Decatur Beers, broken though he was, who saved John 
Deane from the seas, Somewhere between the rigging 


272 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


of the Harvest Home and the rail of the seine-boat, in 
those awful baptismal waters that came near holding 
two victims, the soul of Decatur Beers was purged of its 
uncleanness. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


THE HOME POET 

T ime would fail to tell all that happened after the 
rescue of the crew from the rigging of the Har- 
vest Home; how Bill Spurling had the port cable 
of the Nimbus cut at the knighthead as soon as he saw 
the last man hauled into the seine-boat; how he let the 
Nimbus drift down frightfully near the ledges to allow 
the seine-boat a chance to pull alongside the schooner 
without being swamped, as we might have been had our 
boat been hauled to the schooner against the heavy 
seas ; what a time we had in getting the rescued men 
aboard the Nimbus while she was scudding by-the-wind, 
with the seas rolling mountain high all about us ; the 
tense moment when John Deane, with a crimson streak 
trickling down his face and neck, was carried white and 
senseless to his berth and Decatur Beers staggered down 
the companionway after him, tears of grief mingled 
with salt brine on his weathered face ; how Bill Spurling 
cast off the seine-boat painter, once we were aboard the 
schooner, and let the boat drift upon the rocks to be 
broken in pieces ; how he held the schooner on tack upon 
tack until she had cleared the dangerous lee shore and 
escaped past East Point. There was a volume of story 
in every hour that we lived in those seas, hours that had 
best be passed over lightly. Toward evening we neared 
Port Hawkesbury under double-reefed foresail, with- 
out boats of any sort, both seines ripped from their 
deck lashings and swept away into the sea, our sails all 
but torn to shreds, and part of our quarter-rail carried 


274 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


away by the great seas that time after time boarded the 
schooner. 

It was near sunset, with the storm breaking and the 
clouds in the west driving apart, when John Deane 
ceased raving and awoke to consciousness. Lew Mills 
was standing near placing wet cloths on his head as he 
had done once before in the forecastle of the Harvest 
Home when the skipper was a mere lad. Decatur Beers, 
threatened with pleurisy and with all kinds of pain in 
his chest, and worse ones in his heart, lay moaning and 
groaning in an adjoining berth while I assisted one of 
his men in keeping hot cloths on the man’s chest. Bill 
Spurling, rare treasure of the sea, was at the wheel of 
the Nimbus, guiding her with practiced hand and mak- 
ing all things ready for anchoring in the harbor to get 
medical assistance for the two captains and the fellow 
with the broken arm. We were going back to Port 
Hawkesbury, to the harbor where, everybody knew too 
well, the Nimbus would be seized by the officials. No- 
body had questioned Bill Spurling’s decision to do this. 
John Deane would not have had it otherwise had he 
been able to give orders ; in fact, he had given Bill Spur- 
ling his orders, we learned later. And that is how we 
came back from the great North Bay that had received 
us so graciously. 

There was little need to place the flag in the rigging to 
show craft in the harbor that the incoming Nimbus was 
in distress. That was too evident in the broken rails, 
the disheveled sails and rigging, the decks swept clean of 
everything and scoured white by the sands of the great 
North Bay as if they had been holystoned by the crew. 
When I heard the anchor plunge from the bow and the 
chain rattle through the hawsepipe I left Decatur Beers 
to the care of his crew, pulled the ship’s papers of the 
Nimbus from the bottom of my ditty-box, placed them 
carefully inside my sou’wester which I strapped securely 


THE HOME PORT 


275 


under my chin, removed my coat and boots, slipped over 
the rail of the Nimbus and swam to the cutter Beetle 
which was anchored under our lee. Immediately after 
being pulled from the water by the watch aboard the 
cutter I asked to see the commanding officer. Him I 
saluted respectfully, although I must have made a sorry 
looking spectacle from the sea. 

Sir,” I said, without further ceremony or introduc- 
tion, “ the men aboard the schooner that has just entered 
port are greatly in need of medical attendance. You 
will render an act of mercy by sending aid to them at 
once.” 

How rapidly time changes the relations of men! It 
was only a week from that stormy day, in the evening, 
that the Nimbus, with full Comberton crew, set sail 
from the harbor of Halifax for the wharves of the La- 
tona. Bill Spurling was at the wheel, George Keene was 
fussing around near him, while Eben Springer, late of 
the crew of the Harvest Home and always hailing from 
Comberton, took the great lanterns from Lew Mills’ 
hands and hung them in the rigging. When the 
schooner had turned its course westward at Cape Sambro 
and settled upon the course for Cape Sable John Deane 
descended the companionway stairs to the cabin. He 
stopped at the door of his own snug stateroom and 
looked in. 

“ How are you feeling now, captain ? ” he inquired of 
the man lying in the berth. 

Decatur Beers suppressed a groan long enough to an- 
swer, “ Never felt better in my life, skipper.” 

Well, good night to you, captain.” 

“ Good night, John.” 

Old Bill at the wheel, who overheard the conversation, 
muttered to himself, “ It’ll take Beers some weeks yet to 
get over lying.” 


276 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


But John Deane, who understood men better than he, 
knew that Decatur Beers spoke the truth. They were 
all homeward bound, all of them in their hearts urging 
the good ship Nimbus to make a speedy return to the 
common port. 

Comberton was ready to give royal welcome to her re- 
turning fishermen. The gleaners afield and at sea had 
gathered their harvests for the season. On the farms 
and at the wharves the fall’s work was well in hand. 
The fields had yielded their burden of hay, adding a gen- 
erous second-crop of clover, and now lay withering 
grayer with every night’s frost that bit deep into the 
stubble. All through the October days the birches and 
poplars on the river banks had been dropping their 
golden tribute upon the strand at their feet which the 
restless, greedy tide licked up and bore off triumphantly 
on its shoulders to be buried in the dark coffers of the 
ocean’s bottom. 

The grand-bankers, gray with the scouring of the sea, 
had returned weeks before from their summer’s cruise. 
When the tide was out they lay quietly upon their sides 
like cattle resting after a season of toil; but when the 
flood once more lifted them oflp the flats the ships would 
shake their antler-tops high above the trees of the bank 
and fret and pull at their chains as if impatient to be 
back at Whale Deep or the Bucksport Shoals battling 
with the storms of the Grand Bank. Their holds were 
empty of cargoes. Huge tubs and bulging hogsheads 
upon the wharf filled with unwashed codfish and a profu- 
sion of half-cured fish on the flakes above the banks 
pointed mutely to the success of Comberton’s deep-sea 
fleet for the season. Ashore men and boys were scrub- 
bing the last of the salt codfish with stiff brushes, or 
wheeling the green fish in barrows up the steep banks to 
be spread by skillful hands on the flakes to be cured by 
the autumn sun and winds. While men were thus round- 


THE HOME PORT 


277 


ing out the year’s work and getting everything in readi- 
ness for the irresistible winter ahead there was in every 
person’s mind a picture of the schooner Nimbus bearing 
her precious cargo of human freight nearer and nearer 
to the home port. 

When the schooner did appear all work at the 
wharves and the firesides of Comberton ceased. Anx- 
ious lookouts at the Point discovered the schooner when 
she first entered the bay. They carried the glad news 
quickly to Comberton village. Men left their loads of 
mussel-bed unspread in the fields and rushed off toward 
the wharves. Women deserted their ovens and, with 
young children in their arms or tugging at their skirts, 
hastened to the shore. At the wharves nearest the 
mouth of the river the men and boys paused in their 
work to gaze at the returning schooner carrying its 
mixed crew from two Comberton vessels. They shouted 
out glad tidings to this man and that of the crew as the 
Nimbus sailed slowly past them ; then leaving their work 
in whatever stage it happened to be, youth and adult 
alike rushed pell-mell across fields and gullies to be at 
the wharf when the Nimbus should come in. As the 
schooner continued upstream the demonstration became 
greater. Flags and ships’ colors were flung to the 
breeze in happy welcome to the little schooner and her 
crew. Swivels were loaded on the deck and wharves; 
as the schooner passed by the boom of cannon was 
added to the din of shouting and acclamations that 
greeted the return of John Deane’s vessel. 

The landing wharf was black with the crowd. Fisher- 
men and fishermen’s families were there to welcome the 
men back to Comberton. It would be difficult to tell in 
whom the greatest interest centered, in those who had 
been saved from shipwreck and death or in others who 
had risked their lives to bring other Comberton fish- 
ermen back to a common port. Fathers and mothers, 


278 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


bent with the toil of years, stood clasping each other’s 
hands as they waited for another look into the face of 
a fisherman-son who had clung for hours to the rigging 
of the Harvest Home, Wives were there with little chil- 
dren in an anguish of joy at the home coming of him 
who meant everything to the home circle. Young maid- 
ens, whose happy fate had depended upon the successful 
outcome of this season’s fishing, were waiting to cling to 
these rough men of the sea. Every one of the returning 
crew had some relative waiting on the wharf, waiting 
and yearning for the return of Comberton men and 
youth. Every one of them except John Deane, the one 
man whom Comberton could thank that day for inex- 
pressible joy in place of untold grief. 

Even Decatur Beers ! For in the center of the group 
that pressed to the edge of the wharf was his mother. A 
faded Paisley shawl, which her son had brought back 
from his first voyage across the seas a score of years be- 
fore, was drawn across her shoulders and held tightly 
in front. Her face was kindly, wistful, anxious, — for 
word had been sent from Port Hawkesbury that her 
son had passed through great distress and was still a 
very sick man. People who pressed close to the edge of 
the wharf did not forget how anxious she was and they 
protected her from the crowd that pushed from every 
side. 

Strangely there was neither noise nor demonstration 
from those upon the wharf. The schooner circled to- 
ward the opposite shore and approached the wharf 
headed downstream against the tide. The people 
watched the young man at the wheel turn the schooner 
neatly about. Their heart strings pulled too tightly 
to allow words of greeting to escape their lips. Hands 
were waved quietly, eyes on the wharf met others on the 
schooner in quick, frantic welcome before they filled with 
tears. The side of the schooner rubbed against the 


THE HOME PORT 


S79 


front of the wharf, loops of cable were tossed up to the 
men on the wharf, and the schooner Nimbus, returning 
from her memorable cruise, was at home. 

Comberton folk marveled at the miracle enacted be- 
fore them. Decatur Beers, haggard as they had never 
known the man, was resting against the house. It was 
John Deane who took hold of his arm and assisted him 
over the rail to the wharf. The broken captain took his 
white-haired mother in his arms and kissed her upon the 
cheeks. The little woman, overcome with exceeding 
great joy, could only extend her hand in thankfulness 
to the young skipper. After that, there was a scene of 
the wildest joy and greatest weeping that Comberton 
ever knew, and nobody cared who saw the tears or the 
expressions of happiness. 


CHAPTER XXX 


FURLING THE SAILS 

C OMBERTON’S reception to her returning sea 
kings did not end with the welcome at the water- 
side. That was only preliminary to greater ex- 
pressions of gratitude that their men had been safely 
delivered from the sea. Word had reached them telling 
of the wreck of the Harvest Home and the serious ill- 
ness of Decatur Beers. This news was followed almost 
immediately by a telegram announcing the seizure of the 
Nimbus by Canadian officials and of her departure for 
Halifax where the hearing would be conducted. All 
Comberton knew that upon receipt of the news Seth 
Hinds had not let a moment pass in his endeavors to be 
present at the trial, and nobody thought for an instant 
that his presence in Halifax would be helpful to John 
Deane’s cause. A few days later a laconic dispatch 
from John Deane stated that the Nimbus was about to 
set sail for home with full Comberton crew, including 
Decatur Beers and his Comberton men. Indeed, it 
would have been most surprising if there had been any- 
thing but the full tide of humanity lining the banks of 
the Latona when the Nimbus sailed into port. 

Never before in the history of the town had specula- 
tion stalked abroad with so great latitude and longi- 
tude as in the three days preceding the arrival of the 
schooner. For Comberton knew little of what had hap- 
pened, or how it had happened, or why the crews of rival 
schooners should be returning aboard the same craft. 
Something eventful had happened, that was certain; it 
was enough to set speculation busy like the arms of an 
280 


FURLING THE SAILS 


281 


octopus feeling for food to satisfy its hunger. The 
women of the village had done their part toward wel- 
coming the returning veterans of the sea by preparing a 
dinner at the town hall, where everybody would have a 
chance to meet everybody else and all could hear the 
news that Comberton’s ears were itching to hear. So it 
was not strange that within three hours after the Nim- 
bus tied up at the wharf the townspeople were gathered 
at the hall and the heroes, like Ulysses and his faithful 
crew, were seated at the groaning tables. 

It was a feast worthy to be spread before Vikings re- 
turning from a plunder cruise to the southland regions, 
except that in this case the returning sea-dogs had been 
guilty of pillaging nothing more serious than the depths 
of the ocean. The hall was in an uproar of noise, merri- 
ment and busyness. Nobody attempted to hear beyond 
his third neighbor, or to apologize for running into 
somebody else, or to wait his turn to talk ; for in that 
assembly one had to talk or eat as opportunity was 
given. The matrons contentedly carved food at the 
sidetables with their backs to the crowd while the young 
maidens hurried away to wait upon their favorites at the 
tables. When the crews of the Nimbus and the Harvest 
Home confronted deckloads of food provided so bounti- 
fully before them and felt the near presence of their 
women folks they knew indeed that they had reached the 
home port. 

After there had been a wonderful consumption of edi- 
bles such as even these hearty folk had never before 
thought possible the tables were cleared, the noise 
gradually subsided and the men tipped back in their 
chairs to enjoy cigars which had been provided for the 
momentous occasion by the foresight of the selectmen. 
One thought was uppermost in the minds of all — who 
would be the winner of Seth Hinds’ thousand-dollar prize 
for the record catch of the season.^ 


28^ SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


On this point public opinion was unanimous who the 
winner should be. The people were impatient, also, to 
learn at first hand what had happened after the arrival 
of the Nimbus at Port Hawkesbury. Instinctively they 
turned to Bill Spurling for the information. Every- 
body knew that Bill had a way of seeing rather clearly 
whatever happened and of talking abo^t things without 
mincing of words. He had had a part in much that had 
taken place, too, and it required but a little urging from 
his neighbors for him to set the events before them. 
Omitting all reference to his own valuable work, espe- 
cially in handling the Nimbus and saving her from a 
perilous situation. Bill began with the anchoring of the 
schooner in the harbor at Hawkesbury. 

“ No sooner had the anchor splashed into the water,” 
Bill went on after a brief introduction to his theme, 
“ than I heard another splash. Somebody hollered out 
^ Man overboard ! ’ but when I looked I see they was mis- 
taken ; it was only Pitch Graham swimming away to the 
cutter. It was just like Pitch to do that, for the cut- 
ter’s boat put off in a minute or so bringing the ship’s 
surgeon to take care of our sick men. But when an- 
other boat followed hard in her wake it brought the com- 
mander who seized the schooner. Then the jig was up, 
as everybody knew it would be when we left Souris break- 
water. 

“ Well, after that they took us to Halifax to try the 
schooner and we all allowed we’d go along, too ; it would 
be getting us just so much nearer home and besides we 
could get our mug-ups out of Lew Mills’ forecastle in- 
stead of paying some boardinghouse folks. It was 
worth the price of being captured to be in Halifax when 
the trial was on. All the people there gave us the glad 
hand and were sorry we’d been taken by the officials. 
You see they’d heard all about John Deane and how he 
saved Decatur Beers and his crew from the shrouds of 


FURLING THE SAILS 


the Harvest Home, Under the circumstances they knew 
he wasn’t deserving to have his schooner seized ; but law 
is law and must be obeyed. 

“ When the trial came off the courtroom was packed 
with Blue Noses, anxious to hear every word that was 
said but mostly wanting to get a look at our skipper. 
When they got right down to business there wasn’t much 
to be said. The government witnesses, when they took 
the stand, couldn’t swear that the schooner had been 
violating the law when she was first taken off Liverpool, 
except as they said Captain Beers had told them she was. 
Of course that wasn’t very good testimony in court and 
most everybody thought the officers didn’t want John 
Deane’s schooner condemned any more than the crowd 
did. Finally Skipper John and five of us fellows told 
our story which jibed with each other’s all right and all 
was to the same effect that the schooner took the fish 
’way outside the three-mile limit. So there was a one- 
sided case and the chief skipper of the courtroom was 
ready to dismiss us with his blessing when old Seth 
Hinds piped up from the back of the room and asked 
why they didn’t call in Captain Decatur Beers to give 
his testimony, seeing as he was in the city. So they 
dragged ’Cate out of his sick bed and brought him into 
court to testify against John Deane.” 

Bill stopped long enough in his narrative to allow the 
effect of Seth Hinds’ action to sink into the minds of his 
hearers before continuing further. 

“ When ’Cate Beers came in he was as pale as a 
shark’s belly. The room was still as death while he was 
making his way up front and getting settled in a big 
chair that was brought out for him, for he was powerful 
sick. They were stiller’n death while he talked, for 
Decatur Beers turned his briny soul inside out right be- 
fore the whole of us like he would his woolen sock if he 
was mending it up. The judge looked at Beers, who 


284 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


didn’t look at anybody, and told him what had been said 
before he came in, especially that the government wit- 
nesses had said as how Beers had told them the Nimbus 
was fishing inside the limit when she took her fish. 

“ ‘ What have you got to say in that respect, sir? ’ 
the magistrate said to Beers. 

“ Beers squared himself around facing the judge and 
said, ‘ It’s a lie, sir ! ’ 

‘‘ Everybody in the room held his breath to hear what 
he had to say. The judge bent forward toward him and 
asked again, ‘ What is a lie? ’ 

“ ‘ What I told the officer is a lie ! Everything that 
I have said about it is a lie, sir.’ 

“ He pressed his hands against his breast as if it hurt 
him to talk. He was awfully white and I thought to 
goodness he would up and die right before us. The 
judge kept on with his questions, trying to find out just 
how blue a liar Decatur was ; but he didn’t get much 
satisfaction in the end. 

“ ‘ You mean to say that you lied to the officer about 
the Nimbus and have lied about her seizure ever since? ’ 
he went on. 

“ ‘ Yes, sir,’ he answered, without turning his head. 

“‘You admit that you are a liar?’ questioned the 
judge. 

“ ‘ I am, sir,’ Beers answered. 

“ ‘ Then how do we know that you are not lying 
now ? ’ 

“ ‘ What ? What is that, sir ? Do you doubt my 
word ? ’ Beers said, biting off his words and turning 
sharply upon the magistrate. He was the Decatur 
Beers of old in a minute, — afire in a minute when his 
word was doubted. His eye flashed like he wanted to 
fight the judge. The officer was taken back by Beers’ 
answer and went on in a quieter tone, ‘ You will under- 


FURLING THE SAILS 


^5 


stand, Captain Beers, how difficult it is for us to know 
just what your testimony is worth since, on your own 
testimony, you admit that you are a liar.’ 

“ ‘ But you don’t understand that things are differ- 
ent now,’ the captain protested. 

‘‘ ‘ Yes, we understand. Only a week ago you and 
your crew were saved from shipwreck by the captain of 
the Nimbus. It is only natural that you should feel 
different toward him now.’ 

“ ‘ But I didn’t want him to rescue me,’ Beers de- 
clared. 

“ ‘ Captain Deane did rescue you, didn’t he ? ’ asked 
the judge. 

‘‘ ‘ No ! no ! ’ he cried out, clutching hold of both arms 
of his chair with his hands. ‘ No, John Deane didn’t 
rescue me. I wasn’t rescued. I was saved ! ’ 

“‘Saved.?’ said the judge. ‘What do you mean.? 
What is the difference.? ’ 

“ ‘ Oh, you don’t understand the difference, sir, as I 
told you before,’ replied the sick man, still clutching at 
his chair arms and staring across the room as if he was 
in the shrouds again off Souris breakwater. You could 
hear his whisper to the outside door, the room was so 
quiet. He went on and told his story, the strangest 
that I ever heard from the lips of man. I’m going to 
tell it to you in his own words so you’ll understand; 
but you can’t realize it as we can since you were not 
in the court room.” 

Bill Spurling had no need to invite his audience to 
attention. Comberton’s epic was being recited by a 
narrator of Homeric mold. Bill put himself in Beers’ 
place and imitated with voice and look and gesture the 
tense scene in the Halifax courthouse in a manner that 
made his neighbors see the trembling captain of the Har- 
vest Home open his soul to the world, 


286 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


“ Decatur Beers pressed his hands hard against his 
chest and went on, talking to nobody in particular, just 
unfolding himself in a pitiful, grand manner. 

“ ‘ John Deane did rescue this poor hulk of bones from 
the rigging ; that was the most daring thing I ever saw 
done. No one but him could have done it. But it 
wasn’t worth the risk. My body was broken then, and 
I didn’t have no soul that could be called one. I sold 
that years ago to the Devil. I hadn’t had no soul since 
Seth Hinds got hold of me ten years or more ago. I 
sold my soul to get a schooner but that was always 
out of my reach. Hinds looked out for that. 

“ ‘ Six years ago,’ he went on, straightening up in 
his chair with an eflPort, ‘ six years ago Seth Hinds 
gave me orders about John Deane. He was only a boy 
then — fifteen — I believe. Hinds had jest knocked the 
boy senseless on my own deck and he said, “ Break him, 
curse him, break him ! ” That was a wicked summer for 
me. I was nothing short of bein’ a human hellyun to the 
boy for weeks until one day he turned on me and come 
near ending me. I never blamed him for it, though. 

“ ‘ Somehow, he’s the kind you can’t break. He’s 
fought his way against some awful things that’s been 
done to him. It seems like he’s more than human. This 
year when I got home from the Magdalenes Seth Hinds 
told me to get him, whatever it cost. An’ I’ve paid the 
full price. I lied about him to the cutter’s officer at 
Liverpool. I set the officer on him at Aspey Bay and 
left the fishin’ grounds to help chase his schooner. But 
he got away to Gloucester. While I was aboard the cut- 
ter at Cow Bay I stole the papers of the Nimbus from 
the commander’s cabin and took them to Seth Hinds 
at Comberton. I hounded the Nimbus and her skipper 
day and night, but never without paying my price. 
Finally off Deadman’s Rock I ran John Deane down in 
his dory. I didn’t intend to do that. I thought I’d 


FURLING THE SAILS 287 

drowned him, only to have his ghost walk out of the 
waves and — ’ 

“ Beers stopped for a time. It was hard to see him 
and listen to his story. By and by he got hold of him- 
self again and went on. 

“ ‘ Oh, God, what an awful price I paid then ! Ten 
thousand deaths would be welcome to get free from the 
clutches of the dead spirit that crushed me into this 
helpless state ! ’ 

“ The man cried out in anguish as he lived again those 
terrifying moments. The audience stared wild-eyed at 
the sight of him. 

“ ‘ Then there came that awful day on the wreck.’ 
He went on with husky voice, his eyes staring before him, 
and one hand groping out into the air as if he was 
writing the story there. 

‘ I had paid the uttermost farthing — lost my soul, 
lost my schooner, lost five of my good men. Then he 
came — came like a god out of the sea and rescued my 
men from the rigging and the sea. Nothing could stop 
him. It was awful to look down and see him conquer 
everything, then plunge into the waters and pull the 
poor wretches back to life. The men were all rescued. 
Then I was ready to go down with my ship. Oh, it 
would be hell to live after that, to be pulled off the rig- 
gin’ by him that I had wronged for years. I cried out 
for him to take the men aboard the schooner and let 
me die. 

‘‘ ‘ Hell never will have terrors for me after living 
through those minutes. He leaped in the sea that 
would drown any other man and climbed up after me. 
That knife! That knife between his teeth was going 
into my worthless heart with every ratline that he 
climbed I Oh, God, how I suffered ! I never thought of 
going that way before.’ 

‘‘ Then Beers stopped again. He looked so differ- 


288 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


ent and peaceful like. The pain left his eyes and he 
turned to the magistrate when he spoke again. 

“‘He did not strike me. John Deane never struck 
any man a blow with his fist. He cut the cords that 
bound me. Then he took me in his arms, useless and 
helpless as I was, and leaped backward into the sea to 
give me the best chance in the water. I wasn’t rescued. 
I was saved! I tell you, man, I met the Christ down 
there. He saved me from the seas and from myself and 
has brought me here to be a witness to help right the 
wrongs that I’ve done to John Deane. And that’s why 
it is different now, sir.’ 

“ When Decatur Beers got through testifying I felt 
like shouting right out loud in meeting and telling him 
that it didn’t matter so much whether the Nimbus was 
condemned or not so long as he had cleared himself of his 
past — and that’s how we all felt about it. The magis- 
trate felt as we did, for after ’Cate got through talking 
he said he guessed the government didn’t have any 
charge against the schooner and that the business of the 
day was over. 

“ Then Seth Hinds popped up again all a-frothing 
at the mouth and hollered out without being polite to 
anybody, ‘ How about that other charge of sailing the 
schooner without her papers ? ’ 

“ The court was all took aback to have somebody 
bring this to his attention ; but it was too late to mend 
matters and all Halifax knowing about it. He made 
the best of a bad matter by saying, ‘ We have no evi- 
dence that the schooner was being sailed without her 
papers.’ 

“ ‘ But I have,’ shouted Seth Hinds, pushing up to 
the front. He pulled a yaller envelope out of his pocket 
and shook it in the air. 

“ ‘ Them’s the papers of the schooner Nimbus, sir, 
and she’s been sailing the seas these two months without 


FURLING THE SAILS 


^89 


any papers at all. She’s a pirate craft. She’s been 
legally seized and I claim the reward that your gov- 
ernment offered. It goes to the man that holds the 
ship’s papers,’ cried Hinds, just like that.” And Bill 
imitated the voice and gesture of the well known Com- 
berton character in a manner that set the audience in 
roars of laughter. 

“ It was worth a cargo of Magdalene herring to be 
there when Seth Hinds opened his envelope. I had seen 
the revenue officer bite on the same bait and seen Cap- 
tain Beers do the same thing but seeing Seth Hinds rip 
open the envelope with his big forefinger and pull out 
one of his own bill-heads was beyond human description. 
He stood there a-gaping at the thing like it was a ghost, 
getting redder and redder all the time and the people 
looking on and wondering what had happened until 
finally they began to smell a rat. Then that Pitch he 
called out from back in the crowd, ‘ You must have 
swiped the wrong paper from your captain, Mr. Hinds,’ 
meaning as how Hinds had stole the papers from Beers. 
The young rascal come up front and laid the real papers 
of the Nimbus on the table in front of the magistrate 
where everybody could see them and feel of them and 
read them, and they was the real papers, too. It was all 
a mystery to Seth Hinds and John Deane and his crew 
and everybody except me and Pitch. 

“ After they had looked the papers over for a time 
Pitch says to the magistrate in his slickest manner, ‘ And 
now, sir, if you are convinced that the schooner Nimbus 
was seized and that I hold the ship’s papers, at your con- 
venience, sir, I should like to receive the reward offered 
by your government and another offered by a public 
spirited personage.’ 

“ The magistrate consulted with his advisers before 
he answered. It was evident to them that the schooner 
had been cleared of both charges ; also, that the rewards 


S90 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


offered for her seizure were valid even if she had not been 
condemned. Finally he held two envelopes out toward 
Pitch. The youngster opened up the government docu- 
ment first and pulled out a voucher drawn for five thou- 
sand dollars. He took a glance at it, then shoved it into 
his coat pocket as if it had been any ordinary bit of 
paper. When he opened the other envelope he spread 
the contents out before him in front of all the folks look- 
ing on ; it didn’t seem a very modest thing to me but then 
you can’t ever predict how his mackerel will school, ex- 
cept that they will come to the surface in due time. 

“ Well, Pitch stood there with legs spread out as if he 
was on the quarter in a gale of wind and read aloud to 
us while we listened with all our ears. 

“ ‘ I promise to pay the sum of five thousand dollars 
as a reward to the person or persons who delivers the 
schooner Nimbus, Captain John Deane, into the hands 
of the Canadian government for violating the treaty 
rights of that government. (Signed) Seth Hinds.’ 

“ There was some excitement among us when we 
learned that our own neighbor had been plotting to have 
our schooner seized by offering a big reward for the 
doing of it. A postscript said as how the reward would 
go to the one who had the ship’s papers in his possession 
when the ship was seized. You see. Hinds knew when 
he wrote that note where the papers were and he hoped 
to get the reward himself. But for Pitch here he would 
have, too. Oh, Pitch ain’t so woolly that he bleats, 
yet. 

“ After Pitch had read the note through in his drawly 
way he looked up at Seth Hinds as pleasant as a sunfish 
and said, ‘ Captain, this five thousand stays in my jeans, 
too. Recollect, captain, what happened to me one 
foggy night half a dozen summers ago.? Well, Neighbor 


FURLING THE SAILS 


291 


Hinds, it will cost you just about ten dollars a minute 
for the time you kept me muzzled with that herring-stick 
of yours ! ’ Then there was a mighty shout in the 
courtroom and everybody scrambled to shake hands 
with Pitch and John Deane — and some of the rest of 
us, too. 

When we got away from Halifax Pitch explained to 
Skipper John all about the ship’s papers and how he 
happened to have them. He pulled out his ten thousand 
dollars and placed five thousand of it in Skipper John’s 
hands. But John Deane wouldn’t listen to it for a min- 
ute. He said he had his schooner and his year’s work ; 
with the way things had come out — meaning Decatur 
Beers — he was the happiest and contentedest man in 
the world. 

“ So our friend Pitch has got the nifty sum of ten 
thousand dollars on his person to get educated on, be- 
sides a couple hundred more he got from the seine-boat 
and several hundred from his summer’s work. Brains 
will tell, friends. Pitch has got them and had rather 
use them any day than his hands. We rated him a full 
share this season and I guess he deserved it. But why 
on earth he wants to spend his money for a college edu- 
cation is beyond me.” 

Bill’s narrative was received with generous applause 
both for his satisfactory explanation of events that had 
taken place and also for his realistic manner of telling 
about them. Immediately following the handclapping 
and shouts of approval that the veteran seaman had pro- 
voked, the people called for the selectmen to announce 
their decision. “The prize! the prize! John Deane! 
The prize ! ” came from all quarters of the hall until 
there was such a din that there could have been no an- 
nouncement had one been prepared. The calls from the 
expectant crowd showed clearly that they needed little 
assistance from the judges to confirm their belief that 


292 SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


the skipper of the Nimbus and the prize were insepar- 
ably linked together. 

It had been the purpose of the first selectman to make 
a lengthy speech, in which he would set forth the import- 
ance of the fisheries to Comberton, the interest that 
everybody had taken in the events of the summer at sea, 
and the wish that in some way the fisheries could be 
stimulated in like manner in years to come. But as he 
listened to the narrative of Bill Spurling he had reason 
to change his mind about the desirability of again hav- 
ing a prize set before his fellow fishermen. He could 
not omit reference to the exciting events that had taken 
place during the previous ten days, as he should not. 
After brief introductory remarks the chairman of the 
board of selectmen announced the decision of the board 
regarding the prize offered by Seth Hinds. 

“ There have been losses and disappointments this 
year,” he said, “ but, on the whole, we have prospered 
and been blessed. The good old schooner Harvest Home 
has sailed her last voyage but we are thankful that 
Comberton didn’t lose more than a schooner. None of 
our neighbors was lost — some of them have been saved 
as you know. When it comes to saying who’s the best 
man out of Comberton I take my hat off to one man, 
the same as you do. But it is not my business here to 
praise folks. You want to know what decision your 
board of selectmen has made. We have all agreed 
that the thousand-dollar reward to be given to the skip- 
per who has taken the most valuable treasure from the 
seas this season belongs to — ” 

Here the speaker paused while his listeners breath- 
lessly waited for him to pronounce the name of John 
Deane. He looked down at the table for a moment, 
then slowly squared himself about facing the crowded 
hall. 

‘‘ The reward belongs to Captain Decatur Beers ! ” 


FURLING THE SAILS 


293 


On the instant the audience was ready to protest 
what appeared a most unjust decision, certainly an un- 
popular one. The swift after-thought in the minds of 
all, however, was quick to repress the involuntary mes- 
sages that were pressing on their lips for expression ; it 
held them in leash until an explanation of the decision 
was given. At another time the speaker would have been 
mobbed, for all through the summer and fall months 
Comberton had been expecting John Deane to be winner. 
Now they recalled the picture at the wharf, still fresh 
in their minds, of Decatur Beers returning to his home 
port a different man than when he had set forth and 
John Deane assisting the broken captain to his mother’s 
side. They knew that Beers had lost most of his worldly 
goods when the Harvest Home broke in pieces on the 
rocks ; it came to them that Beers and his mother that 
very moment were seated before the open fireplace in 
their lowroofed cottage and that the gray-haired lady 
was ministering to her son’s wants only as a mother can. 
Then the people understood without being told that John 
Deane had had some part in awarding the prize. They 
sensed his influence with the selectmen, — this young 
man whom they had come to regard mountain-high 
above themselves in the really great things of life. That 
is why nobody in the audience, however disappointed 
when the decision of the selectmen was announced, cried 
out against it. 

“ Some of you may be surprised at the decision,” the 
speaker went on, attempting to be unmoved by the strong 
feeling that was struggling within him, “ but when you 
recall that it was Decatur Beers who pulled John Deane 
from out of the waters of the wreck you will agree with 
your selectmen, I am sure, that he saved a treasure 
greater than any fare of codfish or catch of mackerel.” 

He could get no farther. The crowd burst into cheers 
and cries and handclappings that told only too well how 


294. SKIPPER JOHN OF THE NIMBUS 


they approved the decision of the board that befitted the 
occasion so admirably — for no man after that held any 
bitterness in his heart against the skipper of the Harvest 
Home. If John Deane could forgive, they at least could 
approve his act. 

That is about all there is to the story. When the 
applause had subsided somebody inquired who was go- 
ing to take the thousand-dollar check over to Decatur 
Beers. “ Aunt ” Susan Condon called out, “ Whoever 
goes has got to take this basket of food over to Mrs. 
Beers, too,” for the good women of the village had not 
forgotten any people of the community who were unable 
to be present on that memorable afternoon. Then Bill, 
who always was old womanish enough to want the last 
word, said, “ I move that John Deane take the basket 
of food and that Velmy Brandon go along with the thou- 
sand dollars.” 

So it was voted by everybody excepting the two young 
people who were commissioned to do the errand. We 
watched the fairest maiden of the town and this young 
man — the strongest frame and the biggest heart that 
ever put forth from the wharves of Comberton — walk 
down the road sharing the burden of the basket between 
them. At the doorstep of the little cottage they stopped 
to chat together for a moment and, with their heads very 
close together, to look at the thousand-dollar note. 
Then they disappeared through the door, bearing good 
tidings and great cheer to the happy mother and son 
within. 


THE END 


FEINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OP AMERICA 


T he following pages contain adTertisementi of a few 
of the Macmillan novels. 


% 


H. G. WELLS' NEW NOVEL 


Joan and Peter 

By H. G. wells 

With frontispiece. Cloth, i2mo 

Mr. Wells calls his new novel “ The Story of An Edu- 
cation ; the education of two unusually interesting young 
people whose lives touch many of the most (revolution- 
ary) radical and artistic movements in English life dur- 
ing the last two decades. In the study of the characters 
of Joan and Peter, Mr. Wells has done some of his finest, 
most revealing and brilliant work. It is reminiscent in 
manner of The New Machiavelli, which is to say that it 
does for the subject of education what The New Machi- 
avelli does in the field of politics. 

Every one read and discussed that former work; it is 
more than likely that Joan and Peter will find equally 
wide reading. 


THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York 


WILLIAM ALLEN WHITE’S NEW NOVEL 


In the Heart of a Fool 

By william ALLEN WHITE 

Author of The Martial Adventures of Henry and Me, 
A Certain Rich Man, The Court of Boy ville, etc. 

$i.6o 

It was nine years ago that A Certain Rich Man was published, 
and in all the time that has intervened, thousands of people who 
read that book have been looking for its successor. In the 
Heart of a Fool comes at last as the gratifying response to this 
long expressed demand. 

The dominant theme of In the Heart of a Fool is suggested 
by its title. It is primarily the story of a man, Thomas van 
Dorn, who says in his heart, “There is no God,” and who set§ 
himself up to take what he wants from society with the com- 
placent belief that he can take as much as he wants without 
impairing his powers or his personality. The scene of the 
novel is a Kansas town; its growth from the days of its settle- 
ment to the time that it is a flourishing industrial center is 
portrayed. In this town are many interesting people who figure 
in the story. Dr. Nesbit, a kindly, delightful, well-intentioned 
man, who nevertheless has his point of moral obtuseness on the 
side of politics; Mrs. Nesbit; their daughter, Laura; Margaret 
Muller; Amos Adams, an idealistic printer with a tendency to 
spiritualism; his wife; their son, Grant Adams, who inherits all 
of the idealism and part of the visionary quality of his parents, 
— these are but a few of them. They are all alive and the inci- 
dents in which they figure compose what is sure to be voted a 
notable addition to American fiction. 


THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

Publishers 64-86 Fifth Avenue New York 


PHILLPOTTS’ NEW NOVEL 

The Spinners 

By EDEN PHILLPOTTS 
Author of Brunei s Tower, Old Delabole, etc. 

Mr. Phillpotts' work is always thoughtful and sincere and 
goes beneath the surface of things. His new novel, as in the 
case of Brunei’s Tower and several other of his later writings, 
takes one of the big industries as its background, and tells against 
this a compelling, human story. 

Essentially, it is a study of hatred ; it centers about the deep, 
inborn hatred of a boy for his father, who had refused to marry 
his mother after he had promised her to do so, really because 
he had come into a large property and did not think the work- 
ing girl the right wife for him, although he tries to persuade 
himself that it is because of his philosophic views on marriage. 

The climax which the tale reaches is vivid and powerful. 
Altogether the work is one which bears out Phillpotts’ reputation 
for sustained and beautiful work. 

A NOVEL BY ZOE BECKLEY 

A Chance to Live 

By ZOE BECKLEY 
With illustrations 

It is not the story of the exceptional girl that Miss Beckley 
tells in this book; the average young woman of to-day with 
normal instincts and ambitions is her central figure. Annie Har- 
gan,^ daughter of the tenements, has a great deal of trouble in 
making enough money to live on. The problem is one vrhich she 
alone can solve as there is no one who can help her, with the 
possible exception of Aunt “Moggie” who can only contribute a 
very little now and then. The story of Annie’s experiences, first 
in the factory, later as switchboard operator and typist, is re- 
lated with real power and insight. Equally appealing are those 
later days when love comes into Annie’s life and she decides to 
cast her lot in with “Bernie’s.” Their marriage starts off hap- 
pily, but something happens and they almost drink the bitter 
dregs of despair. They are saved from that by a common in- 
terest — a vision which they both have and which wonderfully 
materializes. 


THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

Publishers 64-66 Fifth ATenue New York 


RECENT FICTION 


Khaki: How Tredick Got Into the War 

By freeman TILDEN 

$1.25. 

A wonderful, moving story. We have read nothing 
approaching it as a picture of America . . . has vigor, 
excitement and thrill.” — N. Y. Sun. 

“ A novel of extraordinary merit. We earnestly wish 
that every man and woman in America might read it and 
be inspired by its all compelling patriotism.” — N. Y, 
1 ribune. 

“ Vivid and realistic ... a notable picture of what the 
war means to those who wear and love the khaki.” — 
N. Y. Times. 


Barbara Picks a Husband 

By HERMANN HAGEDORN 

Author of The Great Maze — The Heart of Youth, 
Faces in the Dawn, You Are the Hope of the World, 
etc. With Frontispiece by J. Paul Verees 

$1.50. 

Scintillating, flashing wit, lambent humor . . . few 
novelists have written with more sheer brilliancy.” — 
N. Y. Tribune. 

“ A vital, remarkable contribution to American fic- 
tion, powerfully interesting as a story ... of genuine 
significance.” — Philadelphia Ledger. 


THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York 





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